


The Haunting of Wayne Manor

by Nokomis



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, Ghosts, Gothic, Gothic Horror AU, Gothic horror tropes aplenty, Supernatural Elements, references to adoption
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:02:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 31,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27881933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nokomis/pseuds/Nokomis
Summary: Stephanie Brown arrives at Wayne Manor to be governess to Bruce Wayne’s young son, Damian. Once there, she begins to suspect the manor is a place shrouded in darkness and secrets, where the shadows seem to follow her, where doors lock mysteriously and questions go unanswered.  And most dreadfully of all, her own secrets are just as likely to catch up to her and bring her to ruin.
Relationships: Stephanie Brown & Damian Wayne, Stephanie Brown/Cassandra Cain
Comments: 91
Kudos: 133





	1. and whatever walked there, walked alone

**Author's Note:**

> I have this story completely written, and I should be posting chapters once a week. (That'll give me time to edit each section and still work on other fics.) Huge thanks to skylarkblue for beta'ing this chapter! ♥

Wayne Manor stands alone, grey and foreboding, rising above the early morning fog. 

Most of the windows are dark and shuttered, and for a terrible moment Stephanie thinks that the driver has left her standing alone before the wrong house. But there are elaborate iron _W_ s decorating the gate, and the size of the place alone tells her it could be no place other than her destination.

She approaches the gates cautiously, hoping to find them unlocked. The letter had indicated she should arrive early this morning, October the first. She has scarcely put a hand on the gate when it swings silently inward. From the general ambiance she would have expected a creaking sound. She takes a deep breath, then lifts her hood over her hair and picks up her bags.

The drive is long; she regrets allowing the driver to leave her at the gate. She should have insisted he bring her to the manor itself, but what’s done is done. She grips her bags tight and strides up the walk, trying to take in as many details as possible about the place that was going to be her residence for the foreseeable future.

The manor itself is huge, hulking and grey, though not as unkempt as she would have assumed from its isolation. They’re only a few miles from Gotham, but somehow, it feels worlds away.

She takes a deep breath before lifting the knocker on the door (ornate; grasped in the mouth of an iron gargoyle’s face) and letting it fall. The resulting sound almost makes her flinch. In the early hours, it echoes sharp as a gunshot.

Stephanie steps back and waits, wondering if she should knock again. The house is immense, and in all likelihood her knock wasn’t heard. She’s just stepped forward, ready to lift the heavy knocker again when the door swings open. Like the gate, it’s utterly silent, and a man stands on the other side, face in shadows.

“Miss Brown, I presume.” His accent is crisply British, his posture impeccable. Stephanie squares her shoulders and nods. “Alfred Pennyworth. We’ve been expecting you.”

From his tone, Stephanie feels obscurely like she’d somehow arrived late, even though she knows for a fact that she hasn’t. She’d reread the letter a dozen times on the carriage ride alone. She leaves her bags just inside the door at Mr. Pennyworth’s direction and follows him through the foyer. 

Stephanie would like to stop and marvel at the house— its size alone is enough to overwhelm, to the point that the beauty of the architecture almost seems an afterthought — but Mr. Pennyworth doesn’t pause. Down a hall, through a doorway, and down _another_ hall, and they reach their destination. 

It’s a solar. The morning light shines softly through the numerous windows, and a gentleman is seated at a writing table, the light hitting against his hair like a halo. 

“Master Bruce,” Mr. Pennyworth says, drawing the man’s attention. “The governess has arrived.”

“The— oh, yes,” Mr. Wayne says. He stands and crosses the room to look Stephanie over. He’s a very large man, and his presence seems to fill the room. Stephanie raises her chin and meets his eye. 

“Mr. Wayne,” she says, voice louder than she intended. Nerves. “I’m thankful for this opportunity-“

“The agency says your credentials are impeccable,” Mr. Wayne interrupts. “You’re younger than I would have suspected from their letter.”

“Yes; but I have plenty of experience—“

And again, Mr Wayne speaks over her, as though he’s already decided how the conversation shall go and her input is unnecessary.

“I expect you to act with decorum at all times. My son is an extraordinary young man, and he needs a firm hand. Do you feel up to that task?”

It isn’t as though Stephanie has any choice at this point. “Of course. I look forward to meeting your son and shall do my best with his education.”

Mr. Wayne makes a noncommittal sound. Then he says the most curious thing yet. “You understand that there are to be no visitors?”

Stephanie nods; it had worried her, when the agency had made her aware of the request, but was also convenient. 

“Furthermore, once you retire for the evening, there will be no exploring of the halls. I expect you to stay in your rooms until morning.”

Stephanie blinks, but nods again. “Of course, Mr. Wayne. I shall do my best to be an useful member of the household.”

Mr. Wayne returns to the table and the half-written letter she can see there, summarily dismissing her without a word. Mr. Pennyworth leads Stephanie out of the room, through a kitchen and up a small flight of stairs. Down another corridor, and Stephanie found herself obscurely grateful that Mr. Wayne had forbidden nighttime wanderings, because she was sure to get hopelessly lost in the daylight. She didn’t dare imagine what these halls would look like in the dark. 

“Your room,” Mr. Pennyworth says, and pushes open a heavy oak door, identical to all the others. Inside is a large room, dominated by a heavy poster bed, but lightened by the pale yellow wallpaper. Her bags are sitting near the door, and Stephanie finds that she has an entire suite to herself.

It’s spacious, far more than she had imagined when she’d read the listing for the job and had taken the leap of faith to apply. She’d hoped for a decent sized bed, but had figured on a cot in a small room. This is more space than she’s ever had to call her own. 

Staying in at night would hardly be a difficult task when she had a place like this. 

She freshens up, splashes water on her face and smooths her hair. She checks her reflection in the mirror -- she appears to be a demure young lady, determined and prepared. Good. 

Mr. Pennyworth returns to show her to the classroom. “Master Damian has asked to give you the tour of the grounds personally,” he explains as they take an entirely different path from her room, this time winding down the main staircase into the foyer before moving down a hall on the opposite side of the house than the one that had lead to Mr. Wayne’s solar. “By dinnertime, you’ll be well acquainted with the house.”

“Good,” Stephanie says. “It’s such a large place, I do fear getting lost.”

Mr. Pennyworth offers only the barest hint of a smile before leading her into the classroom.

Several large tables dominate the space, and along the walls are shelves and cabinets housing various curiosities. In the corner is a skeleton; Stephanie can only hope that it’s a replica, but the teeth have irregularities to them which indicate it had once been a person. She tries not to look at it directly.

There is a boy standing behind one of the tables, dressed primly in an approximation of a schoolboy’s uniform, hands clasped behind his back. His hair is parted neatly, his face scrubbed, and he looks at her as though she were something unpleasant that he’d found stuck to the bottom of his shoe.

“Pennyworth, surely this isn’t the governess,” he says, disappointment writ on him as clear as day. “She’s barely older than I am.”

“I assure you that this is the venerable Miss Brown,” Mr. Pennyworth said. He gestured grandly towards her, the first frivolous movement she’s seen him make. It makes him look younger, more spirited, like the actors in a play she’d once seen. “Treat her as you would any lady deserving of your respect.”

“We’ll see about that,” sniffs young Damian Wayne.

Stephanie mentally tells herself that this is an opportunity that she’s grateful for and smiles at the boy. 

She doesn’t expect to do much teaching the first day, but she asks Damian to show her what his previous governess had taught him. 

“I had tutors that my mother provided,” he says, nose in the air. “The best in the world.” The _far better than you_ was unspoken but clear.

Stephanie has not heard a thing about a Mrs.Wayne. She opens her mouth to inquire after his mother, when Damian continues. “I could hardly expect an education like that _here_.”

Stephanie takes his affected accent and the way he referred to his mother as pieces of a puzzle, making a picture of a mother that was absent and distant-- whether geographically or emotionally, she couldn’t begin to presume. She’s not heard of any scandal involving Mr. Wayne, but she hardly was in the same social circle. 

She chooses discretion and doesn’t ask, tempted though she is. Mr. Wayne hadn’t included inquiries about the family dynamic in the list of forbidden topics, but Stephanie knew that was likely unspoken.

A quick tour of the classroom -- Damian seems especially fond of the scientific texts and other empirical studies, and Stephanie thinks that he might benefit from lessons in the humanities, and decides to plan their days accordingly -- and then Damian offers to show her the grounds. He goes as far as to offer an arm when going up the staircase, clearly taking his role as tour guide seriously.

Stephanie accepts, feeling more like a debutante at a ball than a governess instructing her charge, and wonders if Damian’s affected attitude is a permanent fixture, or if he’ll become accustomed to her and treat her more familiarly. She has a hard time imagining it.

Damian takes her on the promised tour of the manor. His descriptions are imaginative on the parts of which ancestor built which wing, and light on details such as how many people currently live in the estate. He simply gestures down a hallway and says, “This is the family wing. You aren’t welcome there.”

It was a long stretch of hallway, deep red carpet and gold sconces. Heavy mahogany doors were at even intervals, and Stephanie wonders how many were occupied.

She’d done her best to find out about the Waynes before embarking upon this career. Bruce Wayne was infamous, of course -- from being publicly orphaned at such a tender age, then famously disappearing for a while, to the point that the estate had begun proceedings as if he had met his demise, only for him to reappear in spectacular fashion, becoming a regular figure in the public eye as if he’d never disappeared? Curious.

She’d found reference to a boy fostered at the Manor, and of an adopted son who met an early fate in some foreign war. She’d found nothing about young Damian barring the job inquiry that had led her here. 

The rest of the tour was a whirlwind. The Manor was built in a curious manner, with the halls and wings arranged in a way that made Stephanie slightly dizzy to try to build a mental map of. It was a far cry from the no-nonsense layout of her previous accommodations.

The grounds are beautiful, and Damian takes extra time to take her to the stables and introduce her to the animals there. 

By noon, Stephanie is exhausted but cautiously hopeful about her stay at Wayne Manor.

*

Stephanie carefully arranges her hair and changes her dress for dinner, but when she arrives, she finds only Damian.

“The others tend to eat in their quarters or on their own schedule,” Mr. Pennyworth explains as he serves them both. “Master Damian here, however, is your charge and shall dine with you.”

“Wonderful,” Stephanie says, and finds that she means it. Despite his prickly attitude, Damian is already a familiar figure, and she has no desire to eat alone. She’s had more than her share of solitary meals already, and fills this one with bright words-- observations about the Manor, questions about Damian’s likes and dislikes, talk of the weather. 

Anything to avoid silence, and the thoughts that come with it.

*

She writes to her mother, to let her know she’s arrived safely. That she’s safe.

She hates to, but she adds a post script: _Despite everything, I am well. I ask that you hold your responses for me, since for obvious reasons, I cannot receive post from you._

She lifts her pen, then sets it down again, leaving a blot of ink on the paper. She stares at it, and her terse words, then adds one final thing. _I do love you._

She meets the postman at the gates herself, trusts the letter to his hands directly. The address feels as though it’s emblazoned on the envelope in blood, and his eyes skip over it with only the slightest of pause.

She smiles. “Charity work is a passion of mine.”

The postman says nothing.

*

Stephanie rounds a corner, lost in thought, and nearly runs directly into someone. “Oh!”

It’s a young woman. Stephanie had been unaware that any other women were present in the Manor. She has dark hair, loose and wild around her face, and kind eyes that make Stephanie feel uncharitable for noticing her hair’s disarray.

“Good morning,” Stephanie says. “I’m the governess--”

The woman nods once, sharply. Stephanie leaves her introduction dangling. They stare at each other in silence for what feels like an eternity but is probably only a few seconds. Then the woman smiles, turns on her heel, and moves back down the corridor.

Stephanie wonders if she should follow. It’s the direction she was heading, anyway, so she does.

From this vantage point, she realizes that what she took as a plain, ill-fitting dress is actually a pair of loose black trousers with a black shirt loose over it. Stephanie marvels at that; it looks as though the woman can move easily and quickly, without any clothing that hinders her. She moves gracefully, too-- far moreso than Stephanie, even though she considers herself to be a more than passable dancer. She’s never thought about translating that type of movement to simply walking.

“What’s your name?” she calls as she hurries to catch up with the woman. “I’ve tried to get Damian to tell me about everyone who lives here, but…” she trails off, uncertain about how to describe Damian’s particular personality quibbles.

The woman -- girl, perhaps, now that Stephanie is closer, they appear to be of similar age-- looks at her, shakes her head again, and points over Stepanie’s shoulder. Stephanie glances back, and upon seeing nothing, turns to question the woman again, but she’s gone.

Stephanie even goes as far as to open the nearest doors, glancing inside but seeing no signs of life.

Curious.

*

“I saw a young woman,” she says at dinner, glancing between Mr. Pennyworth and Damian, hoping for a reaction. “Earlier, in the eastern corridor.”

They look at each other, then back at their plates. 

“Does she live here?” Stephanie asks.

“She does,” Mr. Pennyworth says after a long moment. Stephanie wonders if she's imagining how reluctant he sounds to speak. “Miss Cassandra is very solitary. I wouldn’t expect to see much of her.”

 _Miss Cassandra_. Stephanie noted how he spoke of her in the familial way; Stephanie herself was referred to as simply Miss Brown. She was deeply curious -- wanted to ask Damian if she was his sister, even, despite the lack of physical similarities beyond the dark hair they shared, but she’d learned that questions about the family and their relationship to each other were typically met with stony silence.

Damian in particular was touchy about any reference to or question about his absent mother. Stephanie still had no idea who she was.

“I see,” Stephanie says, even though she doesn’t.

*

It’s surprisingly simple to settle into a routine at Wayne Manor. 

The repetition of the school day helps. Stephanie is relieved to find that Damian is a good student, despite her worries about his attitude superseding his desire to learn. He’s likely more educated than she is, but Stephanie is adaptable and quick to pick up things, and often finds herself learning alongside Damian as much as she’s teaching him. She suspects he knows, but enjoys the process enough that Mr. Wayne hasn’t been made aware.

The days are pleasant and repetitive. 

The nights…

The nights are something else entirely. 

The first night was unremarkable. Stephanie luxuriated in how soft the bed was, in the feel of the soft clean bedding, in the quiet that enveloped the room. There were no city noises here, simply silence. The house was well constructed; she couldn’t hear so much as a footstep in the hall outside her room, much less any of the other inhabitants.

She fell asleep almost instantly, thanks to the exhaustion from the travel, the deluge of new situations, from the sheer amount of energy it had taken to step into a new role.

The second night is wildly different. Stephanie finds herself in her room soon after dusk, almost immediately after dinner. 

She straightened the room, unpacking the rest of her clothing and putting her few personal items on the vanity. She felt restless, energy thrumming under her skin, after a day far more leisurely than she was accustomed. 

The room that had felt so spacious the night before now feels like a prison cell, the four walls confining her and leaving her with the desire to do anything but stay within them. 

Mr Wayne’s warning echoes through her mind, and she stares at her door, wondering what could be so secretive. Stephanie was not a timid girl, nor was she known for following all the rules, but Mr. Wayne had sounded so _dire_ when he’d warned her against leaving her room after dark.

She creeps over to the door, puts an ear to it. No sound makes it through. The wood was thick and would muffle all but the loudest of noises. She puts her hand on the doorknob, and simply rests it there, considering her options. Stay in her room. Perhaps read, perhaps work on a lesson for Damian in the morning. 

Or she could throw all her new employer’s goodwill out the window and wander outside, trying to find out why she’d been confined in the first place. 

There was a clear path she should take, a simple, easy path that would only prove beneficiary for her tomorrow.

Stephanie tightens her hand on the doorknob. Just a peek wouldn’t cause any trouble. With the size of the house, the odds of anyone even noticing her door open for just a moment were infinitesimal. 

She turns the doorknob and pulls. 

Nothing.

She stares at the doorknob. There was no locking mechanism on the interior, simply a keyhole. There was no reason why the door shouldn’t open; she would have heard if someone had locked it, and furthermore, the door had opened with ease every other time she’d used it. It wasn’t simply jammed.

She tries again, harder, then turns the knob every way she can manage while tugging with all her weight. The door remains stubbornly closed.

Stephanie stares at it, aware of how fast her breath was coming. What had felt simply like confinement only moments before now feels more akin to a gaol. She’s _trapped_ , and she’d had no clue. If she had simply picked up a book or a pen, she might never have realized. She remembers that morning, when Mr. Pennyworth had rapped on her door signalling it was time for breakfast, and wonders if he’d unlocked it beforehand.

Agreeing to stay in her room at night was one thing. Being locked inside? It makes her chest feel tight, like she can’’t take in a deep enough breath. She tugs on the door and then, frustrated, pushes at it, wondering if she’d somehow forgotten how the door opened. The door refuses to budge.

Hot tears prick her eyes, and she goes as far as to pound on the door with her fists a few desperate, futile times.

It isn’t going to open. She’s trapped.

She feels helpless in a way she hasn’t since she was a child, and hot fury wells up within her. She had left that behind, had abandoned everything that would remind her of those dark days, and she will not let something as simple as a locked door take her back to that place.

She kicks the door once soundly with the sole of her foot, but all that accomplishes is a dull ache in her foot. She looks around the room, desperate, wondering if there is something she could use to jimmy the lock, when she realizes there is a more practical escape plan available.

The windows.

She hurries over to the nearest one. She hasn’t opened it yet, but the lock is on the sash, and therefore completely under her control. She pushes aside the drapes and fumbles at the lock, grateful as it comes loose and she slides the window open.

Cool night air hits her face, and with it, relief.

She leaves the window open all night, even as she shivers under her blankets.

*

She sleeps, eventually, and when she wakes, she races to the door. The doorknob turns easily, and the door swings open without hesitation.

She steps into the hall, not even bothering with a dressing gown, and looks around. No one in sight. That’s typical; her rooms, while spacious and grand, are down a corridor filled with empty rooms. Sheets covering furniture in long-unused sitting rooms; bedrooms similar to hers but with stripped beds. She wonders sometimes why she’s been put in this faraway hall; even a room near Alfred’s in the servant’s quarters would have been preferable, no matter how cold he was towards her.

She turns her attention to the door itself. The knob is as ornate and beautiful as on the inside, and at first glance Stephanie is confused, because there is no keyhole in sight.

There _has_ to be a locking mechanism -- her terror the night before feels muted in the daylight, but she has no doubt that it happened. She crouches down, inspecting the door closely. Presses on all the ornate swirls and designs, until her finger catches on a part that resembles a leaf that depresses as she pushes against it. 

A faint clicking sound, one she doubts she could have heard through the door, and a tiny panel slides away to reveal the keyhole.

Stephanie leans back on her heels, and wonders what to do. If she asks about it, then the whole household will know she tried to break the solitary rule presented to her. But if she doesn’t…

Stephanie can’t imagine having a restful night’s sleep again.

She presses the leaf again, and watches the keyhole disappear.

*

Mr. Pennyworth greets her as usual as she sits down for breakfast. 

Stephanie murmurs a reply, then focuses on her food while she tries to decide how to approach the topic of her locked door.

Mr. Pennyworth is the same as always. If he was the one who locked her door, either he’s remorseless or it’s such a commonplace event that it doesn’t occur to him that she might have discovered it. 

It’s an uncomfortable thought.

She’s saved from having to decide what to do by Damian’s arrival. He’s in a grump, slouching in his chair and kicking his feet petulantly as he glares at his plate.

“Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning,” Stephanie said, smiling as gently as she could to show that she was teasing. She’s had enough misunderstandings already with Damian.

Damian ignores her entirely. “Alfred, I’m not doing lessons today.”

“Yes, you are,” Stephanie says firmly before Mr. Pennyworth has a chance to reply. 

“No, I am not,’ Damian says, narrowing his eyes. 

“Why?” Stephanie asks, because Damian sounds even more determined than before.

“I have better things to do with my time,” he says. His nose is practically vertical, it’s stuck so high in the air. Stephanie supposes it’s lucky they’re indoors. It was raining steadily outside; were Damian out there he might drown. 

“Like what?” Two could play at that game, after all.

Damian’s chin was set; she could read the stubbornness in the set of his shoulders. “I don’t have to answer to you.”

Stephanie opens her mouth, ready to shoot off with a reply that might get her in hot water, when Mr. Pennyworth comes to her rescue. “Young sir, this behavior is unbecoming. Just because you’re displeased with the return of—“ Mr. Pennyworth cut the sentence off abruptly. He isn’t as obvious as to look at her, but it’s clear that she is the reason he didn’t continue. 

How many secrets were there in this house? 

“Is there a visitor?” Stephanie asks, hoping she sounds innocently intrigued, rather than desperately curious. 

Mr. Pennyworth stills. “There are often visitors at Wayne Manor, Miss, that would rather not associate with anyone outside family. No offense is intended, of course, but some have experienced things that have left them in a rather fragile state.”

“I see,” Stephanie says, though she most definitely does not. “I will do my best to avoid awkward confrontations, then.”

“That would be greatly appreciated,” Mr. Pennyworth says, relief evident in his tone. “Now, finish up breakfast so you can get to your lessons.”

Stephanie isn’t entirely sure who the statement is directed towards, but she and Damian both eat more industriously.

*

It isn’t until halfway through a lesson on geography that Stephanie realizes that she had completely neglected to find out about the locked door. 

In the evening, she retires to her room at her customary time. Light still filters through the window, drapes still open from the night before, though the sky is overcast and rapidly dimming. The rain had stopped earlier, but the clouds had lingered, leaving Wayne Manor feeling gloomy.

Instead of moving around her room, straightening her belongings, doing the tasks that she’d put off during the day, and sorting through the lessons she wanted to teach Damian the next day, Stephanie sat on the floor, leaning against the door. The lock was near her ear; she should know the second it was engaged, and she could… pound on the door, yell out, _something_. She couldn't bear the thought of another sleepless night. 

After nearly an hour of simply sitting on the floor, listening intently, Stephanie reaches up and grasps the door handle. Turns it, only to find that the door will not budge.

She pales.

Stands and turns the handle again, gripping it tight enough that her knuckles go white. The same result. Despite her listening intently, she’d somehow missed the lock turning. Had somehow missed someone standing on the other side of the door, mere inches away.

Hads become imprisoned yet again.

Stephanie takes a deep breath. Opens the window, letting the damp air fill the room. It’s likely to give her a cough, but she’d welcome an illness if it meant she could still taste freedom in the air.

Then she goes to the wardrobe. In the bottom of her bag she’s stored there is a small sewing kit, and concealed within _that_ is a tool that a lady of means should neither possess nor know the function of. 

A lockpick.

She kneels in front of her door, and carefully inserts the lockpick into the keyhole. It takes several tries to get it to catch; the lock isn’t set up like she would assume from inspecting the door as she’d left the room this morning. Each time the lockpick slips uselessly over the mechanism, it feels like her heart is in her throat, beating madly. 

She swallows hard, and continues her task. It takes embarrassingly long, but finally, _finally_ , she feels the catch of the lock giving way, and quickly turns the handle, swings the door open before it has an opportunity to somehow lock itself again.

Stephanie quickly secrets the lockpick away in her pocket, quietly deciding to keep it on her person while she’s living in Wayne Manor, and pulls the door open fully.

The hallway is empty. Not even the slightest hint of movement to be seen. 

Stephanie takes one tentative step out, looks around. Everything is quiet and still; the sky is mostly dark, now, and the hall dim. She takes in a deep breath, and returns to her room. Pushes the door shut, and gives the knob another try. Still unlocked.

She climbs into bed and falls asleep with one hand wrapped around the lockpick like it’s a lifeline.

*

It becomes a ritual: every night she waits an hour, then tests the door. Every night, the door is locked.

And every night, she picks the lock, takes a solitary step into the hall, and returns to bed, secure in the knowledge that she is not trapped.


	2. the willing relinquishing of reasonable patterns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to skylarkblue for the beta! ♥

Had Mr. Pennyworth not slipped and mentioned the mysterious guest over breakfast, Stephanie never would have suspected. Wayne Manor is enormous; Stephanie often goes days without seeing a soul besides Damian and Mr. Pennyworth. She even still gets lost; sometimes she swears that the rooms aren’t quite where she saw them last. She assumes that Mr. Wayne and the mysterious Cassandra also have meals, but they are never at the same time or location as her and Damian. 

She wonders when, exactly, Damian actually gets to see his father. It’s not her place, of course, and Stephanie isn’t exactly sure herself how much one normally sees their father in such circumstances, but it dawns on her, as her time in the Manor can more readily be measured in weeks rather than days, that Damian must be a desperately lonely child.

His attitude had put her off enough at first that she hadn’t realized it, and it fills her with a flush of shame knowing that she’d failed him in that manner. 

But something about Mr. Pennyworth’s inflection -- “You know your father has _company_ ” -- makes Stephanie deeply curious, especially when paired with Damian’s sullen reaction. 

“I wasn’t aware there were guests in the Manor,” Stephanie says lightly.

Mr. Pennyworth and Damian exchange a look, then Mr. Pennyworth says, “Mr. Wayne is mentoring a neighbor in business acumen, Miss Brown, and it’s not Master Damian’s place to interrupt.”

Stephanie looks back and forth, and suddenly Damian’s petulance makes sense. It’s not a child being unfairly jealous of his father spending time with others, it’s a child that is justly jealous. She doesn’t know much about the inner workings of Mr. Wayne’s businesses, but she knows that he controls a vast empire and that his son ought to be learning just as much business acumen as the neighbor.

She decides then and there that instead of a book-based lesson, today they would do something _fun_.

“Let’s go on a nature walk,” Stephanie suggests when they meet in the classroom later that morning, driven by an obscure desire to get out of the Manor. Fresh air would do them both good.

Damian scrunches up his nose. “Why?”

“Because it’s important to appreciate your natural surroundings,” Stephanie replies primly. Damian’s disinterest is actually a bit of a godsend; Stephanie’s knowledge about local flora and fauna is minimal at best.

“Fine,” Damian says, giving one last wistful look at his arithmetic book before following her towards the entrance. Stephanie tries to imagine her younger self preferring calculations over a nature walk, and finds that she simply cannot.

The grounds of Wayne Manor are spacious and secluded. Stephanie hasn’t spent as much time outdoors as she assumed she would, back when she first answered the advertisement and was daydreaming about what she would do were she to be hired. She was given a brief tour in her first days by Damian himself, but he’d simply pointed out a few important landmarks -- the cemetery, the pond, the game trails -- and had moved on. 

She chooses a pathway almost at random, figuring that Damian will do his best to avoid further inconvenience and will lead them back should they get lost. Getting lost is a distinct possibility, thanks to Stephanie’s lack of familiarity with the woods.

Gotham’s hulking mass of misery can be seen from many spots on the grounds, given how close Bristol is and how it overlooks the water, but once they enter the woods, it melts away and it feels like they’re a million miles from the city. From civilization itself. 

The morning is misty and grey, but birds are chirping and the bright colors of fall are starting to dapple the trees. There’s dew clinging to the still-green grass and plant life growing along the path, and Stephanie stops to point out clusters of mushrooms, domed and perfect, like illustrations from a storybook.

Damian resists the purpose of the walk at first - talks in a self-important manner about which ancestor had purchased the land and the original purpose of the paths, but Stephanie doggedly keeps pointing out interesting plant life and stops when a bird trills in the trees, forcing Damian to stop and listen, too.

The woods are surprisingly dense; within minutes, it’s like they’re in their own world. Gotham has fallen away, and even the Manor itself is no longer visible. All that exists are Stephanie, Damian and the trees that shield them. 

Perhaps that’s why Damian finally lets his guard down; he listens to the birds and lifts rocks to find bugs, and they marvel at the delicate interplay of nature together. A few times a small smile lights up Damian’s face, like when a squirrel hops from branch to branch directly over their heads, and it transforms him completely.

Stephanie quietly decides to do everything in her power to make him smile as often as possible. It makes him look like an actual child for once, instead of a dour, tiny adult. 

They continue down the trail, Damian now pointing out wildlife instead of his ancestral accomplishments. They come to a clearing, and Stephanie realizes that what felt like an endless trail actually had been spiraling through the forest to end at the pond that Damian had shown her on her first day. 

Mist hovers over the dark water. It’s eerie and beautiful; were Stephanie an artist she would be tempted to render the scene in watercolor. It has that soft, muted look to it, like the colors themselves have been leeched out of the world and left only the barest impression of their former glory. 

Stephanie is entranced enough with the beauty of the scene that Damian’s hand tugging at her sleeve startles her. 

“Let’s go,” he says, and his entire tone has shifted. It’s no longer the child excited by squirrels, this is the overly serious child speaking. 

Stephanie wonders what changed, then movement catches her eye. 

Someone is standing on the bank of the pond. He’s dressed in dark colors which blend into the foliage behind him perfectly. From this distance she has the impression of slightly unruly hair and a strong figure, and it’s clear that it’s not Mr. Wayne or Mr. Pennyworth.

“Who is that?” Stephanie says immediately. “Do you think we have a trespasser?”

“No,” Damian says curtly. “Let’s return to the Manor.”

“Do you know who that is?” Stephanie squints, hoping to ascertain more detail.

A stray ray of sunlight broke through the clouds, and Stephanie got a glimpse of the strange man’s face. There was a shock of white in the front of his hair, though he looked scarcely older than she was, and a jagged scar across his face that was visible even at this distance.

“It doesn’t matter.” Damian turns on his heel and takes a few steps towards the Manor, then looks back at her. “Come _on_.”

“Should I call to him?”

This causes a look of pure panic to cross Damian’s features. “Absolutely not. We need to go. Now.”

There’s a sharpness to his tone that has Stephanie catching up to him, grabbing at his hand and gripping it tightly. She’s certain suddenly that she ought not be here, that Damian is truly trying to protect her from something. “You’re right,” she says, never taking her eyes off the strange man. “Let’s go.”  
She’s certain that the stranger sees them, but he remains silent as they hurry away.

Damian takes her down a different path that the one they arrived down. It’s a far more direct path, rather than the circulous, meandering one they’d spent the morning on. Wayne Manor looms before them after only a few hurried minutes, which Stephanie spends looking over her shoulder constantly to make sure the strange man is not following them.

Damian doesn’t look frightened, and once they’re safely inside the Manor -- Stephanie bolts the door behind them to make sure of their safety, even though logic dictates that other doors in the giant home must be unlocked -- Stephanie turns to him. “Who was that?”

It’s clear Damian has an idea, from the guilty expression on his face as he shakes his head claims to have no knowledge. Most people would be fooled, but Stephanie has seen that expression before, when she’d inquired why he hadn’t done the reading the night before. Despite a distinct lack of distractions in the Manor, Damian never seemed to accomplish anything in the evening hours.

It’s also just as clear that he isn’t going to tell her. She’s learned exactly how stubborn Damian is, and if he’s not breathed a word about his mother or where he lived before coming to Gotham, he’s also not going to say anything about the stranger by the pond.

Stephanie takes in a deep breath. Her heart is still pounding, but Damian’s reaction has calmed her, and she supposes the physical reaction is simply left over from the exertion and excitement. She no longer thinks they’re in danger. 

Instead, she thinks she’s seeing another strange piece of the puzzle, of the mystery that envelops Wayne Manor. She’s tried to resist thinking of it like that, has tried to believe that the Waynes are simply odd, but there’s too much evidence at this point. The rule about staying in at night. The stubborn refusal to give names or faces to every resident of the Manor. Her locked door. 

The stranger by the pond.

There’s something strange afoot, and Stephanie is determined to discover exactly what it is.

*

Damian does his work for the rest of the day without complaint, and Stephanie can only find it suspicious. She feels as though she’s fallen through a looking glass, that she’s in a strange new world that only superficially resembles the world she’d woken up in. A vast conspiracy is happening around her, and now that she’s seen the first few pieces, she can’t bear to ignore it anymore. 

She’s tempted to simply ask, to march into Mr. Wayne’s office and demand to know that secret could be big enough to justify so many tiny conspiracies, but that way, she fears, would only lead to her losing her position as governess.

And that’s to be avoided at all costs. 

Stephanie can’t lose this position. If she does… she thinks about what awaits her, and shudders. 

So she can’t let on that she realizes something is amiss. If they realize she suspects something, then they will hide things with more fervor and she’ll never discover what it is.

But she can’t just sit around and wait. 

*

The cool dusk light filters through the windows, making everything grey and hazy. Stephanie walks slowly towards her room, knowing that she ought to be inside already but feeling a wild sense of joy that she wasn’t.

Something out of the corner of her eye catches her attention. A veiled figure walks slowly down the east corridor. It is indistinct; the darkness of the clothes in the dim hallway render the details soft and amorphous. 

Stephanie stops in her tracks, staring. She wonders if she should call out, if she should chase after the figure -- the silhouette leads her to believe it is a woman, but women are few and far between at Wayne Manor.

Just herself and the mysterious Cassandra, insofar as she is aware of.

The figure continues in the darkest shadows, the places where the dying light doesn’t reach, and after a moment’s consideration -- technically she’s meant to be in her room already, even though she’d warned Mr. Pennyworth upon bringing Damian in that she had to get some things from the classroom before heading upstairs -- Stephanie takes off after the figure. She doesn’t think she’ll been noticed.

She watches the figure round a sharp corner, and when she goes around it herself, is greeted with an empty hallway. No sound of doors closing, not even the slightest hint, and she cannot see any open doorways.

It is as if the figure has vanished into thin air.

*

Damian is at the paddock, riding his horse. Stephanie is thankfully not expected to supervise; she’s not sure how she would explain away her inexpert riding. 

Left to her own devices, she decides to explore the Manor. There’s nothing anyone can say about her walking through its halls in broad daylight; it is, after all, her place of residence now. She sticks to the first floor, knowing that accidentally wandering into the family’s wing would be a fireable offense. Most of the rooms ought to be familiar by now, though there are a few tucked away that she hasn’t yet set foot in. 

She wonders if there are rooms in this maze of a manor that even Mr. Wayne has not set foot in. It seems likely.

Down a hall, through a sitting room, into _another_ hall, this one only vaguely familiar, and she finds herself in a room she has never seen before. It’s long and narrow, with the walls lined in portraits. Most are old; Stephanie imagines that in a less maintained home they would be dusty. 

She walks through the room, looking at portraits and reading the small plaques beneath describing the subject. Some of the names are familiar. Buildings in Gotham are named after some, Damian has shared the important deeds of others with her, and it’s not until she reaches the far end of the room that she sees faces that are familiar. 

Bruce Wayne’s image is beside a portrait of a lovely woman and a man who looks strikingly similar to him that could only be his parents. There are a few smaller portraits beside his, lined up vertically. A handsome young man smiling brightly, a youth on the cusp of manhood looking serious, shoulders held back proudly, and the young woman Stephanie saw, Cassandra, wearing a white ballerina’s dress.

She rests her fingers lightly on the image of Cassandra, looking closely. The eyes were the focus of the portrait-- kind and welcoming, as though the viewer of the portrait is a dear friend. It’s a contrast to the strength that’s evident in her pose; the lines of the portrait do nothing to minimize the muscles and confident lines of her body that must come from a lifetime of dance.

There are faint lines on her skin. Steph squints at the portrait, leaning in close enough to kiss. They look almost like scars, though that’s ridiculous-- no one who lived in such a place would have a life rough enough to leave such visible scars. Stephanie’s hand strays to her own abdomen, presses against a spot that she knows would feel raised and rough were she touching her bare skin, and shakes her head. 

It’s a trick of light, thinking that Cassandra -- whatever relation she might be to Mr. Wayne; though Stephanie suspects daughter, given the way all three subjects that Stephanie has been inspecting share Mr. Wayne’s dark hair, though not his complexion -- would bear such intense scars.

Stephanie takes a deep breath, then looks for a clue one last, desperate time. There are no helpful plaques here to tell her their identities. There is also no portrait of Damian. Stephanie wonders exactly how long he’s been in the Manor. 

She takes another long look at each, committing each face to memory, even though there are no indications of how long ago each portrait was done.

She glances around the room one last time, then continues her explorations. 

*

She finds nothing of interest, except perhaps in the way that she finds no other people. Mr. Wayne and his presumed daughter are nowhere to be found on the ground floor, despite the fact that it’s midday. There is no evidence of the neighbor who apparently visits regularly, or the other young man from the portrait. 

She goes outside to the stables to find Damian inside, brushing down his horse. The horse is a beautiful animal; solid grey with black markings on its face almost resembling a mask. She finds a carrot in a bin near the horse’s stall and offers it to the horse, smiling as it lifts the carrot almost delicately with its mouth from her outstretched hand.

She laughs, delighted.

Damian watches her with an expression she can’t quite read, and too much of her focus is on the horse, which is now snuffling at her torso, clearly trying to sniff out more snacks. She doesn’t have any, and strokes the horse’s nose instead, marvelling at the feel.

Damian is quiet through the afternoon lesson, and it’s only when she’s closing the book they’re reading today -- excerpts of poetry; they’ve been discussing seventeenth century metaphysical poetry, which Stephanie would normally consider far too advanced for a child of Damian’s age, but he’s thriving -- that he says something about the stables.

“You’ve never handled a horse before, have you?” 

Stephanie blinks. “Of course I have.” All well-born ladies knew how to ride and kept horses. 

Damian shakes his head. “You haven’t.”

“Why do you say that?” Stephanie was very observant, and knew everything she had done with the horse had been correct behavior.

“You acted like a little girl when the horse ate out of your hand, even though that’s just what horses do.”

Stephanie finds that observation to be incredibly sad, coming from a child. “Damian, finding joy in the world is part of what makes life worth living.”

Damian scoffs, but drops the subject. 

Stephanie is grateful.

*

Stephanie has long since given up on getting direct answers about _anything_ from the Waynes, but finally, she does.

She finds Mr. Pennyworth the small office he maintains just off the kitchens. It’s a tidy room with fine cherry furniture, far nicer than what Stephanie would expect to find in the butler’s office, but she’s noticed that Mr. Wayne holds Mr. Pennyworth in a familial kind of esteem.

“Mr. Pennyworth, I was wondering about getting some pastels and paper for an art lesson,” Stephanie says, hovering in the doorway. The office feels like a private space, like she shouldn’t intrude, but Mr. Pennyworth waves her in. 

“Master Damian would enjoy that greatly,” Mr. Pennyworth says. “I’ll have some sent in from the city.” 

“I know he has his charcoals, but I thought that he needs to work in some color,” Stephanie says. “Thank you.” She can’t help but look around the room, and her eyes immediately fall onto a small row of photographs on the hutch of Mr. Pennyworth’s desk.

“Yes, our young sir does have the tendency to be overly serious,” Mr. Pennyworth says. “He gets that from his father.”

Stephanie hasn’t been around Mr. Wayne enough to know, but she didn’t get an overly dour impression of the man. Melancholia can come in many forms, though. The thought that Mr. Wayne, with the world at his fingertips and surrounded by wealth, might suffer so makes Stephanie feel a little better about her own bouts, though that makes her feel obscurely guilty.

She distracts herself by gesturing towards the photographs. “Who are they?” she asks, sensing Mr. Pennyworth is in a nostalgic mood.

“Oh, you wouldn’t-- of course,” Mr. Pennyworth says. He lightly touches the first image -- a young man standing beside, of all things, an elephant. “Master Richard is Mr. Wayne’s ward.” The next one, a youth slouching on a wing chair wearing a patched coat, book held loosely in his hand. “Master Jason was likewise brought in, though he regrettably perished overseas. And Miss Cassandra is in residence, you’ve likely seen her.” The final photograph that Mr. Pennyworth points to is a similar shot of Cassandra than the one in the portrait hall; wearing a white dress and caught mid-pirouette, though Stephanie marvels at the muscle strength it would have taken to hold that pose. 

Stephanie nods at Mr. Pennyworth’s suggestion that she’s seen Cassandra, though her presence is more ghostly than typical.

Mr. Pennyworth doesn’t seem bothered by her looking closer at the photographs, so she does. Richard is indeed standing beside an elephant, its trunk wrapped around him like a hug. She points to it and says, “I know the grounds are big, but I haven’t missed an elephant, I have I?”

Mr. Pennyworth laughs. “Master Richard would have brought Zitka here with him if he thought he’d get away with it, but alas. She resides in Haly’s Circus, which was Master Richard’s first home, before his parents’ unfortunate deaths.”

Oh. A tragedy, then. She recalled hearing a similar tale about Mr. Wayne himself.

She spends a moment longer looking at the elephant -- she’s never seen one in person, and it appears to be larger than she’d thought they would be.

She points to the next photograph, the one of the dead boy, and says, “Was he from the circus as well?”

“Not quite,” Mr. Pennyworth. The laughter leaves his voice when he talks about Jason, and Stephanie almost regrets asking. “He grew up in Gotham. Mr. Wayne came across him and found they had a connection, so he brought him into his home and his family.”

A bastard son, Stephanie presumes, and finds herself grudgingly respecting Mr. Wayne for bringing the boy in once he’d discovered their connection. Lots of kids in a similar position dreamed that would happen one day, and it so rarely did.

There was something familiar about his countenance, and it took Stephanie a moment to put it together.

The stranger by the lake.

Stephanie has always had a mind for faces; she’s able to remember them with ease. And though the stranger at the lake was only in clear light for her for a moment, she still recognizes the features, now that she’s looking.

What did Mr. Pennyworth mean about _perishing overseas_ , then? Stephanie had immediately presumed that he’d died in a foreign war of some sort, or on an expedition to unknown lands, but here they were.

It was a question that even Stephanie was unwilling to ask. Damian’s reaction to the stranger -- to his erstwhile brother, she supposed -- had told her all she needed to know about broaching the topic of Jason Todd. 

She thought of the strangeness of the nights here, and the idea that the dead might walk these halls wasn’t so far fetched. 

“And her?” She gestured towards the photograph of Cassandra. There were a few others on the shelf -- a stiff daguerreotype of a man in uniform that Stephanie thought was Mr. Pennyworth himself, a tintype of a young girl, another tintype that Stephanie first mistook for Damian but realized must be Mr. Wayne himself as a child; the resemblance was uncanny. A miniature of another unidentified man who shared Mr. Pennyworth’s profile. 

She realized that Damian himself was absent from Mr. Pennyworth’s collection of photographs. 

Mr. Pennyworth’s soft smile returned, at the sight of Cassandra. “She’s very talented, our Miss Cassandra. Extraordinary, even.”

Mr. Pennyworth wasn’t the sort to lavish praise unwarranted, and Stephanie found herself all the more curious. 

“I noticed you don’t have many personal effects displayed,” Mr. Pennyworth said with a faint gesture towards the photographs. “Your room is your own. You’re welcome to rearrange things to suit yourself.”

Stephanie had a single photograph of her mother in her possession, and had absolutely no desire to display it. “Thank you, Mr. Pennyworth. I find that I’m more comfortable without constant reminders of home. It keeps me focused on my work.”

Mr. Pennyworth looks as though he wants to question her further, but Stephanie takes the opportunity to leave, under the guise of wanting to check the library for a volume of poetry.

She finds herself reluctant to lie more than required, and makes an honest attempt to find the library. She must have misremembered which wing it was located in, though, because when she goes down the corridor she distinctly remembers as ending in the wide double doors that open to the library, all she finds is a single locked door.

Two more attempts prove unsuccessful, and Stephanie supposes she must be more tired than she thought. She makes her way up to her room -- this, she’s relieved to note, is something she hasn’t forgotten.

By the time she goes down to dinner, she peeks down the corridor she’d tried to find the library down. Heavy double doors yawned open at the end of the hall, and shelves of books beyond that.

The single locked door was nowhere in sight.

Stephanie tries to put the image out of her mind, starting up a lively conversation about spices at dinner, but the uneasy sense that something was terribly wrong with the house itself, not her own ability to navigate it, persists.

*

Soft music echoes through the halls, and Stephanie follows it.

It’s the delicate sound of the piano; the song is gentle and sweet, and totally at odds with what Stephanie would presume was the favored music around the manor. She ends up outside the ballroom, a room she’s not had cause to do more than glance inside.

The doors slide open, and Stephanie carefully slides one just enough to allow her to peek inside.

There’s a piano set up in one corner, and the expanse of empty floor gleams invitingly, but that’s not where the music comes from. There’s a wax cylinder phonograph set up on the floor near the piano,and it’s the source of the music. 

Stephanie’s attention is immediately drawn to the dance floor itself. A young woman who could only be Cassandra is dancing. She’s wearing a delicate white ballet dress, tights and toe shoes, and she’s spinning and twirling across the floor with a grace that Stephanie never could have imagined a person possessing.

She’s beautiful.

Stephanie isn’t sure how long she stands in the doorway watching Cassandra dance. The motions are fluid and graceful, and infused with a beauty and power that make something deep within Stephanie _yearn_ to leap out on the floor herself and move in similar ways. 

Her skirt twirls out, revealing strong legs covered in white stockings, and Stephanie can’t tear her eyes away. Cassandra’s hair is cut short, barely brushing her shoulders, and it flies around her head, obscuring her features. 

Stephanie is so entranced that she forgets that she shouldn’t be here, forgets that she’s interrupting a private moment. It’s clear Cassandra isn’t performing; she’s simply dancing, moving around the room joyfully without strict choreography.

Then the music stutters to a stop, and so does Cassandra. She stops facing the door, and Stephanie forgets that she should duck out of the way. Forgets that she’s intruding.

“That was beautiful,” she says when Cassandra’s eyes settle on her. “Really-- truly beautiful. You’re incredible.”

Cassandra’s chest is heaving, and Stephanie can see sweat on her brow, making her hair fall in clumps over her face. She’d been dancing full-tilt when Stephanie arrived, and Stephanie has no idea how long she’s been at it. Then she smiles, bright as the sun, the brightest thing Stephanie has seen since arriving at Wayne Manor.

“I’m Stephanie,” Stephanie says, even though it must be obvious. “Damian’s governess. I’m sorry to intrude, I just...heard the music and was curious.”

Cassandra shakes her head, as if to say, _no worries_ , and goes to the phonograph. Turns the crank, then settles back as the first strands of music fill the room.

“Should I go?” Stephanie asks aloud, because she doesn’t want to, but something uncertain curls in her stomach.

Cassandra doesn’t answer, just dances.

Stephanie watches for as long as she can, then flees when that uncertainty feels like it’s too much.

That night, she dreams of dancing.

*

After breakfast, she detours past the ballroom where she watched Cassandra the day before.

Empty; even the phonograph is gone.

Disappointment curls through Stephanie, souring her mood. She hadn’t realized how much she wanted to see her again until that moment. She goes to the classroom, prepares to teach Damian -- history, this morning, though Damian will smugly recite more facts about any given event than are present in Stephanie’s books -- and Damian notices her mood immediately, frowning at her thoughtfully.

“I met your…” Stephanie trails off, unsure about the exact term for that Damian and Cassandra are to each other. Siblings seems presumptuous, somehow, despite Mr. Pennyworth’s description of their relationship. “Cassandra?”

Damian says, in a surprised tone, “Oh.”

“She was dancing,” Stephanie says. “She’s really talented. Did she train professionally?”

A shadow flits across Damian’s face, then he says in a strange tone, “Not quite. She doesn’t perform for others.”

“Oh,” Stephanie says, then flushes. “Should I have not watched her? She must think I’m terribly presumptive.”

“Did she say that?”

“No, she said--” and that’s the moment Stephanie realizes that Cassandra hadn’t said a single word. Her movements, her dancing had simply been expressive enough that Stephanie had felt like she’d been part of a conversation. “Nothing, actually.”

Damian nods. “Words are-- difficult, for her.”

“Oh,” Stephanie says.

“She was raised elsewhere,” Damian volunteers. There’s an unspoken _like me,_ and Stephanie wonders for the first time if he actually _wants_ to speak about his life before Wayne Manor, but has been forbidden to do so. “I think-- I _know_ that she would have made it clear if you were unwelcome.”

“It must be lonely,” Stephanie says. She reaches out, driven perhaps by her own loneliness that she saw reflecting back at her in Damian. Touches his hand. “If you ever want to talk about your life before, I’m happy to listen. I won’t say anything or judge, if that’s your worry.”

Damian looks down at their hands, at the simple gesture of goodwill, as if no one has ever done that before. “I-- I’m quite fine. I don’t need a confidante, especially a governess.”

The last bit feels tacked on, an echo of the prickly Damian Stephanie had seen in her first few days, rather than the boy she spent her days with now. She smiles. “Still, the offer stands. I’m here for you. You’re the closest thing to a friend I have right now, and I’m happy to be yours as well. Despite my standing.”

“Hrmph.” Damian’s cheeks were tinged with the faintest flush of color. Pleasure at being thought a friend, or perhaps embarrassment that Stephanie had spoken so plainly, but either way, the soft show of emotion is welcome. Stephanie pushes open his textbook -- they’re learning about the fall of the Roman Empire today -- and starts butchering various Latin phrases, just to give him something to fuss about.

He takes the opportunity gratefully. 

*

Stephanie sits in her window, watching the grounds. Her room overlooks the western side of the Manor, which mostly consists of Mr. Pennyworth’s garden, now pruned back and desolate for the winter, the hedge maze, and the woods beyond.

The Manor sits on enough land that she can’t even see the twinkle of lights from the nearest neighbor. Were she on the opposite side of the house, it’s likely she would see Gotham proper, but from here, it’s useless. The Manor sits utterly alone

Dusk has faded into full nighttime. Stephanie takes a deep breath, pulls the lockpick from its permanent home in her pocket, and moves towards the door.

She’s quicker at the lock now, having learned its idiosyncrasies. When the door swings open, she doesn’t allow herself the luxury of hesitation. She slips out the door, carefully closing it behind her. She doesn’t know if anyone bothers to check on her in the night, but at least to the casual observer things will seem to be in order. 

She’s gone down this hallway countless times by now, and she knows it well enough that she can easily stick to the shadows without stumbling. She’d carefully dressed in her darkest clothing, going as far as to tie a dark kerchief over her hair to hide its bright color. She had considered simply going out in her dressing gown, claiming to have had some sort of emergency that required her to leave her room, but had ultimately decided against it. She didn’t want to feel vulnerable if she gets caught.

Not that she intends to get caught. She’s always been good at sneaking around, especially in dark, forbidden places. It sends a thrill up her spine that she hasn’t felt since before everything, and for the first time in months she almost feels like _herself_.

Her earliest assumption about Wayne Manor quickly proves to be correct. It’s like the house has transformed in the night, leaving Stephanie feeling somewhat lost as she walks down halls she’s seen dozens of times, and some that she feels like she’s never seen at all.

She feels thrilled and nervous, a ball of energy, as she slips through the halls, listening and watching, but no one ever appears. If Stephanie didn’t know better -- if she didn’t know there were at the very minimum three other souls in the Manor, and possibly more -- she would think she was utterly alone.

She reaches the bottom of the stairs, finally. For some strange reason, it feels like there are more than usual, like the staircase has expanded, like it’s transported her into a different version of the ground floor. Here, shadows linger even more readily than upstairs, deeper and darker somehow. She isn’t sure where to go -- all she knows is that something in this house is wrong and she wants to figure it out.

She goes left. Ignores her classroom, continues down past the solar, past the dining room, past the study and the strange narrow hallway with the solitary locked door. She blinks, and looks back, and instead it’s the library’s double doors, closed firmly for the night.

She keeps wandering through these halls that feel like a ghostly version of their daytime appearance. The floors beneath her feet almost feel like they’re shifting, like she’s on a ship rather than solid land, and Stephanie leans heavily against the wall, trying to regain her sense of self.

That’s when she hears it.

The soft sound of music. She feels almost as if she’s reliving the moments when she first saw Cassandra-- the music is echoing in precisely the same way, though the song is different. More melancholy.

She follows the sound and the gentle strains of the piano lure Stephanie into the ballroom. She’d noticed the grand piano when she’d watched Cassandra dance, but hadn’t approached it.

She does now.

There’s a woman at the piano, back to Stephanie, and she’s playing a lovely, soft song that strikes Stephanie as terribly, terribly sad. Not overwrought in any way, nothing like the dramatic tragedies composers love, but the music speaks of a terrible longing for something that can never be. Of grief, of love, of the quiet despair of losing someone.

It brings tears to Stephanie’s eyes, and makes that constant ache in her chest grow until it threatens to envelop her completely.

She assumes that the woman at the piano is Cassandra, except she’s all wrong-- graceful, yes, but her posture, her bearing are all wrong. Her dark hair is beautifully arranged, and she’s wearing a pale gown that, while well-cut and made of luxurious fabric, is desperately out of style. 

Stephanie still approaches, and when the woman doesn’t seem to mind -- doesn’t seem to react, even though Stephanie calls out a soft greeting and compliment on her playing -- sits on the bench with her.

The woman’s fingers fly over the keys with a grace and confidence that makes Stephanie’s own fingers itch, remembering those few glorious years when she’d been allowed to play. 

The woman’s profile is familiar, and so are her eyes-- deep set, dark blue, with arching eyebrows -- and she doesn’t protest when Stephanie gives in the way the music is calling her and asks if she can join in. The feel of the smooth keys under her fingers makes Stephanie feel -- elated, terrified, _whole_ \-- and then she’s joining in. 

The song loses its ethereal quality, but Stephanie can still feel the music reverb through her bones. 

She loses time, then. The song seems to echo around her, and she plays like a woman possessed. Eventually, she realizes that her hands are cramping up, and she slides them off the keys, the final notes echoing through the ballroom like a dirge.

The woman is watching her now, with a soft, maternal smile. That’s all it takes; Stephanie has her arms flung around her, sobbing, feeling emotions she’s been bottling up since Kane House sliding free, as if the song lifted them from her spirit.

It’s the cold press of the woman’s pearl necklace that is -- somehow -- her first clue that something is deeply wrong. The stones lay flat on the woman’s bare neck; they ought to be warm.

Then she realizes the woman’s never said a word, and when she looks fully into her eyes, she realizes where she’s seen them before. The portrait in the hall, the tintype on Mr. Pennyworth’s desk. A woman murdered in her prime. 

She blinks, and the ballroom swims in front of her, vision going gray and hazy. The piano bench is empty. The room is empty. Stephanie is alone, and she can still feel the cool touch of stones against her skin, can still feel the softness of a beautiful dress, still hear the lingering notes of music.

She stumbles back to her room, and shuts the door firmly behind her.

Tonight, she half-hopes for the safety of a locked door..

*

Her room is silent and pitch-black. Her light has sputtered out at some point in the night.

But Stephanie feels warm and safe, tucked into her oversized bed with her luxurious coverings. There’s something different, she thinks sleepily, about the way her bed feels. Like it somehow isn’t as lonely, like she’s somehow safer than usual.

She curls a hand into the pocket of her nightgown, clutching the lockpick that is her lifeline.

It must be a dream, but as she drifts off, she thinks she feels an arm curl around her, thinks she feels the softness of a kiss pressed against the back of her neck.

When she wakes, she is alone.


	3. defies our boundaries and illuminates our soul

The days continue— waking, checking her door, thankful when it’s unlocked. Breakfast, taking the path to the classroom that takes her by the ballroom, but it’s always empty. Teaching Damian and learning from him in equal measure. 

Returning to her room and listening, waiting for the lock to click. She never hears it but her room is always locked by full dark. Staring at the walls, at that pale yellow wallpaper. Sometimes it seems to waver and move, the pattern seemingly growing faces, limbs, personalities. Falling asleep with strange images dancing through her head.

Waking in the night to the sense that someone is present, someone is _watching._

Waking up at dawn and doing it again. 

Stephanie feels as though she’s going mad. The few scant answers she’s cajoled out of the family only seem to add to the mystery. The longer she stays, the less things make sense. Sometimes she thinks she can’t bear another moment of this place, other times she remembers it’s her saving grace.

If not for her conversation with Damian, she would think she had imagined Cassandra’s dancing. She hasn’t dared bring up the strange moment she had in the ballroom in the night, the spectre that couldn’t have existed. She’s half-convinced it was a dream.

Then things come crashing down.

“Miss Brown,” Mr. Pennyworth says over breakfast with an unreadable expression. “You’ve received a letter.”

Stephanie reaches out and accepts the envelope, feeling as though someone else was doing it the entire time. Like she’s utterly disconnected from her body. There are only two people in the world that would write to her, and she’s told her mother not to, and hasn’t told her father her location at all.

Damian cranes his neck. “A letter? I assumed that no one wanted to write you.”

Stephanie stares at the envelope, at her mother’s shaky handwriting. _Gotham Sanitarium_ , the return address reads, though thankfully her mother has left her own name off. “I did charity work, before,” Stephanie says vaguely. She hurriedly puts the letter in her pocket, nestles it against her lockpick. “Thank you, Mr. Pennyworth.”

“You’re welcome,” he says. He’s still watching her, and Damian looks as though he wants to ask the questions now, instead of the other way around, and Stephanie simply stares at her breakfast, taking a few small, unappealing bites to try to appear as normal as possible.

She thinks Mr. Pennyworth and Damian expect her to steal away to read the letter immediately, but she doesn’t. She can’t. She doesn’t want to know, doesn’t want to have her world altered irrevocably by whatever information her mother found more important than Stephanie’s plea to not write.

The morning passes with agonizing slowness.

Damian keeps glancing up at her as he does his arithmetic, clearly curious, and Stephanie avoids every look. She knows she’s being suspicious but she feels as though her heart is beating twice as much as it ought; only the fact that the envelope was addressed in her mother’s own hand keeps her from pulling out the letter and ripping it open then and there.

The rest of the meals are quiet, and Stephanie even thinks she sees the fleeting figure of Cassandra in the corridor on her way to her rooms that night, but she’s too distracted to follow. She hurries to her room for the first time since arriving at Wayne Manor. Shuts the door behind herself and leans against it, sinking to the floor, pulling out the letter.

She traces her own name on the envelope, finger trailing along the same path her mother had dragged her pen. She remembers the words she said before they parted, knows that she ought not feel so very much at the mere sight of her mother’s handwriting, but the heart is a fickle thing and doesn’t always listen to reason.

No matter what the past few years had held, a child always longed for their mother, and a daughter would always feel that connection.

The reverse was even more true.

Stephanie takes a deep breath. She can’t put it off any longer. She opens the envelope.

A single piece of paper is inside. She unfolds it. The greeting is simple, to the point: _Stephanie._

The next sentence, a shot to the heart: _My separation from you, my daughter, has brought to light exactly how cruel my actions truly were. If it is any consolation, I truly believed and still believe I was granting you a mercy. A second chance, like the one this place has given me._

Stephanie stares up at the ceiling, letter clenched in her hand, blinking away the tears that threaten to fall. She refuses to cry. She cried enough, before, and now she’s forged herself into something new.

_The doctors believe I am nearly ready to rejoin the outside world._

_I know you asked that I not write, but I thought it was important that you know that I’m doing better. If I can recover from how far I fell, my daughter, so can you. Your heart will heal, as mine has._

More lines, more pleas for forgiveness for an act that her mother still sees as just. Stephanie nearly misses the last line, as anger clouds her vision: _I have received word that your father has escaped. I did not share your location with the investigators, but be wary._

At this, Stephanie gives in to the urge and crumples the letter, feeling satisfaction in the way the paper twists under her hand. She stops short of destroying it altogether; her mother claims she’s on her way to recovery, but Stephanie has heard that before.

She smoothes the letter back out. Places it carefully back in the envelope, then goes to her trunk. Carefully picks at the lining, pulls it away from the side of the trunk, and presses the letter inside. Uses wax from her bedside candle to reseal the lining. It’s a little messy, but when Stephanie pushes a pile of books over it, indistinguishable.

She considers the keen interest that Mr. Pennyworth and Damian showed in the letter for a moment, then carefully cuts out a fly page from one of her books, and burns it. Leaves the ashes in the wastebasket.

Hopes it’s enough.

The letter itself is incriminating enough that she ought to have burned it, but she doesn’t have the heart.

*

The next day, she sees Mr. Wayne.

By her reckoning, despite residing in the same home, it’s been weeks since she laid eyes on her employer. But there he is, sitting at the table between Mr. Pennyworth and Damian, as though it’s a completely normal occurrence.

“Good morning,” she says, sitting in her usual spot after only the slightest hesitation, hoping that her confusion isn’t evident.

“Father is going to take me into the city today,” Damian says. He’s practically vibrating with excitement; it warms Stephanie’s heart to see him acting so much like the child that he is.

She smiles. “Wonderful!”

“We’re going to the arboretum,” Mr. Wayne says, his voice a pleasant rumble. Stephanie would almost classify his tone as _friendly_ , and wonders if perhaps this is an imposter, as the intimidating man she’d met previously seems worlds away from this man, who is smearing butter on his toast inexpertly. There are now crumbs in the butter. Stephanie tries not to stare.

“I hope you have a wonderful time,” she says. She carefully butters her own toast.

“You’re coming, right?” Damian says.

Mr. Wayne looks a little startled at the request, but after a second nods.”Of course, Miss Brown, we would love to have you along. It is part of Damian’s education.”

“Of course,” Stephanie says, before realizing that means an entire day spent in Gotham. “Sounds lovely.”

She eats her breakfast in silence, listening to Mr. Wayne and Damian talk. They manuever the conversation more like acquaintances than family, she notices, with Damian listing his accomplishments at every turn, rather than letting the conversation take its natural course.

The question -- _how long has Damian been here?_ \-- is on the tip of her tongue, but Stephanie is resolute in not asking personal questions, not after receiving that letter yesterday. She’s on a narrow ledge, and any misstep could send her into the abyss.

The problem with lies is that they compound. It had seemed a simple thing, to claim to be from a well-to-do family when she’d applied for the job, certain that the common nature of her last name would never reveal her secret. She regrets the lie now, though she doesn’t regret taking the job; she’s come to be quite fond of Damian, and even of stern Mr. Pennyworth.

Besides, being in Wayne Manor means she cannot dwell on her own problems. There are too many others here to draw her focus.

She returns to her room after breakfast, readies herself to go into Gotham. She carefully pins a hat to her hair, hoping that it conceals her enough that she won’t be recognized. The odds are slim; she’s never even been to the arboretum before, which is on the outskirts of Gotham proper, but Stephanie has never had much luck. 

When she returns to the foyer to wait on Damian and Mr. Wayne, Cassandra is there.

She’s wearing a dress-- dark grey, nondescript, but well made and more fashionable than Stephanie’s own. It’s a world of difference from the first strange outfit Stephanie saw her in, or the delicate beauty of her ballet costume. It makes her appear plain and unremarkable, when Stephanie knows she is anything but. 

Stephanie stops short. “Hello,” she says, feeling almost shy, and Cassandra smiles at her. 

It takes Stephanie a moment to realize Damian is also in the foyer, and after a moment Mr. Wayne appears, too, approaching far more silently than Stephanie would have supposed possible for a man of his size. 

Damian talks the entire ride into Gotham, peering out the window and asking any question that seems to come to mind. Mr. Wayne answers some questions, and Stephanie others, while Cassandra watches, amusement making her eyes bright. 

Damian is sitting beside his father, looking up at him with something akin to worship. Stephanie wonders what it’s like, to have such an untroubled relationship with your father. 

She’s sitting beside Cassandra. She keeps stealing looks at her under the guise of looking out her window, though she suspects Cassandra can somehow tell-- there’s a quirk to her mouth that conveys amusement stronger than words could. Every so often they would get jostled into each other, and Stephanie could feel the warmth of Cassandra’s knee even through their layers.

They arrive at the arboretum far, far too quickly.

Stephanie isn’t quite sure what she expected out of the arboretum, but she’s soon entranced with all the different types of trees and plants, and finds that Mr. Wayne is far more educated in botany than she would have supposed.

It’s late in the year for the visit; many of the trees have gone bare already, but some have colorful leaves still clinging to their branches, and the greenhouse on the grounds is filled with beautiful plants, many flowering despite the weather outside the glass.

This seemed to be the main reason Mr. Wayne had chosen to come; he seemed intent to learn everything there was about each plant in the greenhouse. Even Damian’s interest waned, though Stephanie kept reading descriptions of each plant aloud to him, in the interest of doing her job.

Cassandra stuck close and listened intently, though she never so much as glanced at the descriptions herself.

At one point she grabs Stephanie’s hand and pulls her towards a plant. The action startles a surprised laugh out of Stephanie, and she finds herself reluctant to let go. The plant itself is incredibly tall, reaching the very top of the greenhouse. She reads the description -- it’s a century plant, and it’s been cultivated for decades.

Damian joins them, standing on her left, so that Stephanie is surrounded. It’s a nice feeling, like she somehow belongs, rather than just being an employee. She’s still looking at the strange plant when a stranger’s voice echoes through the greenhouse.

“Mr. Wayne!” 

She looks up; it’s a young man roughly her own age, roughly her own height, though dark-haired and skinny. He hurries up to Mr. Wayne and speaks to him in a low tone; Stephanie might not be able to make out the words but it’s clearly important.

“Who’s that?” she asks, not expecting an answer.

“Tim,” says Cassandra. Her voice is soft and sweeter than Stephanie would have imagined.

“Drake,” Damian says at the same time, derision in his tone. “His family home is adjacent to ours.”

Stephanie supposes the word ‘neighbor’ is too plebeian for Damian, especially given how he clearly dislikes this Tim Drake. Stephanie wonders if it has to do with the clear camaraderie and familiarity he has with Mr. Wayne.

Jealousy is a powerful emotion.

Cassandra tugs her to the next plant, further away from Mr. Wayne, and Stephanie finds herself distracted. She loses track of Mr. Wayne and Tim Drake. When Mr. Wayne finds them a few minutes later, his companion is gone and he tells them some business has come up that he has to attend to.

“Mr. Pennyworth will take you directly home,” he says. 

“Should I go?” Cassandra asks, shoulders squared, and Mr. Wayne gives her a measured glance before shaking his head.

“No, make sure that Damian and Miss Brown make it home safely.”

Cassandra nods, looking serious. Stephanie glances between them, wonders why Cassandra has been tasked with their safety. 

Stephanie follows her anyway. They crowd back into the carriage for the ride home, this time Damian crowding in beside Stephanie while Cassandra sat alone. Mr. Wayne had left directly from the arboretum.

Damian is quiet, and Stephanie pats his hand assuringly. “Your father will take you for lunch another day, I’m sure, when work allows.” She assumes this is the problem; Damian had been enjoying his day with his father so much. It was a shame it was cut short.

Damian nods, staring out the window. His expression is odd -- not the petulance Stephanie would have expected, but a quiet sadness. Cassandra has no such reservation, she keeps asking what their favorite plants were at the arboretum, as though it had ended as planned.

Her speech is halting, and Stephanie doesn’t quite recognize the accent. It’s faint, but Cassandra is clearly not a native English speaker. Stephanie is so curious about where she’s from, where Damian is from, about all the strange ways the Wayne family is formed, but she fears that if she brings it up, Cassandra will be silent again, and Stephanie far prefers her voice.

The carriage is just outside of Gotham, having just crossed the bridge towards Bristol, when it comes to an abrupt halt. Stephanie leans to peer out the window, hand on the door. The interior of the Wayne family carriage was starkly black, leather and steel, as opposed to the frilly velvet interiors she’d read about. The day is bright, but she can’t see anything out of the ordinary, though she hears a commotion.

Damian’s shoulders are stiff, and Cassandra is leaning forward, a strange eagerness in her eyes. A second later, the door Stephanie is leaning on is roughly tugged open, and before anyone can react, Stephanie feels a coarse hand pulling on her arm.

She lets out a shriek, kicks her legs, but to no avail. She’s pulled out of the carriage, feet hitting against the ground hard as she’s pulled away from the road. Another masked man -- all in black, moving with grace-- manages to grab Damian by the arm, and pulls him in the opposite direction. More masked men appear, following after them. 

Stephanie screams, thrashes, but her captor doesn’t let loose.

Cassandra flies out of the carriage after them, and Stephanie sees her hesitation, glancing between her brother and Stephanie, and Stephanie knows which choice she must make. Which choice Stephanie _wants_ her to make. Damian is the most vulnerable; he’s a child, and worth far more in ransom than Stephanie could ever dream of. If they take him, his life could easily become forfeit. Just the one man has her; Damian’s surrounded by at least three.

A second later, and Cassandra is running after the men dragging Damian away. 

Stephanie is relieved, even as she claws at her captor’s hand. She arches her back, gets a glimpse of her captor’s face, and her heart feels like it’s suddenly jammed in her throat.

His face is obscured with a bandana, but she’d recognize the blond hair anywhere. Those disdainful eyes. Arthur Brown. How had he found her?

“Let go of me,” she snarls, anger taking away any hint of civility she might have had. “Now!”

He stops, and she realizes they’re out of sight of the road. She’s thrown unceremoniously at the base of a tree, but her father keeps a tight grip on her wrists as he crouches in front of her. “You’re going to do something for me.”

“Like hell I am,” Steph snaps. She’s not going to cower. She hasn’t since she was a little girl and realized that it didn’t help.

“You’re living in Wayne Manor,” her father hissed. “All I need is one thing. A key. It’ll be in Bruce Wayne’s personal effects.”

He says this as though she has any access to Mr. Wayne’s things. Stephanie shakes her head.

“My associate says it’ll have a design on it. Should be distinctive.” He pulls out a piece of paper, shows her a drawing briefly before shoving it back in his pocket. “Mail it to your mother.”

“I will not,” Stephanie says levelly.

“You will, or else you won’t have a mother to mail anything to. You have a week.”

Stephanie shakes her head again, but her father lets go of her wrists and takes off into the woods. He must have been watching for her companion’s approach, because Mr. Pennyworth and Cassandra come crashing through the undergrowth, both looking furious.

“Is Damian okay?” are the first words out of Stephanie’s mouth as she climbs to her feet. 

Cassandra nods, and looks Stephanie over as she brushes the leaves and dirt off her skirt and takes an unsteady step forward. She can tell that her ankle is wrenched, and hopes it isn’t broken. Thankfully, her ankle holds. It throbs, but she thinks a cold compress and elevation will set it to rights.

“Are you injured?” Mr. Pennyworth asks, voice as strident as any surgeon. Cassandra takes her hand, looks carefully at her wrist, where a faint bruise is already forming.

Stephanie shakes her head. “I’m fine,” she says, limping towards their carriage. She knows that the woman she’s been trying to be, the governess from a well-bred family, would be weeping after such treatment, but Stephanie has had enough of minimizing herself. She refuses to act as though she’s cowed when she _isn’t._

“The lout didn’t… That is to say…” Mr. Pennyworth says, trailing off delicately.

Stephanie laughs, surprised at how bitter it sounds. “He grabbed my wrists, threatened me, but ran off like a coward when you approached.” She projects her voice as loudly as she can, hoping her father could hear her words. 

Cassandra is watching her with a quiet sort of contemplativeness, as though Stephanie was surprising her somehow, but Stephanie refuses to stop to ask about it. Doesn’t want to know how she’s perceived right now, not when her emotions are churning hot and angry so close to the surface. She’s too liable to let her thoughts spill free.

A few more steps, and the carriage is in sight, door still hanging open and Damian perched atop the driver’s seat. “Is it clear?” Mr. Pennyworth calls up to him, and Damian nods. Stephanie realizes he’s been keeping watch, and feels a strange flush of pride at how well her charge has handled this whole debacle.

The feeling of pride wars with the vague sense of guilt, given that her presence is what prompted the attack.

Anger simmers in her, feeling as though her skin is buzzing with it, and she wraps Damian in a tight hug as soon as he’s climbed off the carriage. 

He stands stiffly at first -- it’s the first physical demonstration of affection she’s shown him, but then softens into the hug and wraps his arms around her waist. “Are you okay?” she asks, despite seeing for herself that he is, and she feels rather than sees his nod.

“We should get home,” Mr. Pennyworth says, and Stephanie lets Damian go. She climbs into the carriage after him, Cassandra following, though not before glancing around with sharp eyes.

Stephanie recalls how Mr. Wayne had entrusted their care to Cassandra, and how she’d freed Damian from his captors and rushed to Stephanie so quickly. Stephanie wants to ask about it, wants to know how she seems so unruffled, but that question might bring reciprocal ones about why Stephanie herself isn’t distraught.

Instead she rides home in silence, pulling stray leaves out of her hair and dress, and resting her ankle on the seat, forgoing manners.

When they arrive at the Manor, Stephanie half-expects Mr. Wayne to come rushing out to check on his son, only-- only it hasn’t even been an hour since they left the arboretum. It’s barely even lunchtime. Mr. Wayne has no way of knowing anything has occurred.The fact sits oddly with her, given how much has changed since then.

She claims exhaustion and retreats to her room, where she elevates her ankle and wonders what she’ll do about her father’s ultimatum.

*

A knock at her door startles Stephanie awake. It’s still daylight outside, though it’s fading, and she hobbles to the door, opening it to find Mr. Pennyworth. 

“Miss Brown, it’s time for dinner,” he says. He offers a slight smile, and Stephanie realizes that she’s earned his respect.

Perhaps it was a good thing she hadn’t pretended to fall apart after the incident.

“I’ll be down,” she promises, and shuts the door so she can put her hair and thoughts into some semblance of order.

When she enters the dining room, she finds it full for the first time since her arrival. Damian and Mr. Pennyworth are there, as always, but so is Mr. Wayne and Cassandra, as well as Tim Drake and another young man that looks familiar to Stephanie somehow. 

She sits down. Her usual spot is taken by Tim Drake, but there’s a seat free by Damian, and she takes it. Cassandra is directly across from her, and she smiles brightly at her.

“I hear you had quite the ordeal,” Mr. Wayne says. Something about the tone makes Stephanie look up sharply; it’s not a gentle tone, but one that she associates with the investigators that would question her and her mother about her father’s doings.

“Yes,” Stephanie says. “I’m just glad everyone was unharmed.”

“Do you have any idea about the motivations of the bandits?” Again, Mr. Wayne’s tone isn’t kind so much as relentlessly curious.

_To force me to steal from you_ , Stephanie thinks. She casts her eyes about the table, and everyone is watching her carefully. “I assumed they meant to ransom your son?” she asked, hoping she sounded uncertain in an innocent way. 

Mr. Wayne’s expression tightens, and Stephanie knows -- _knows_ \-- that he could hear the lie. There’s nothing to be done about it, though, she’s already said it.

“Bruce, maybe you shouldn’t terrorize the poor girl, she’s already had quite a day,” said the stranger with the familiar smile, and Stephanie suddenly realizes that she recognizes it from the portrait hall. He seems to realize that they haven’t formally met, and offers his name. “Dick Grayson.”

Stephanie smiles at him, wondering if it would get her in worse trouble if she thanked him for defending her from her employer. She decides to stay quiet and eat her meal, be like the ladies at the Kane House had tried to teach her.

She reaches out for her cup, and her sleeve rides up. A circle of bruises is clearly visible there, more vivid than earlier in the day, and Stephanie hastily tugs her sleeve down. When she looks up, Cassandra’s eyes are on her.

“You’re hurt,” Cassandra says. Every syllable she utters is deliberate, and it draws the attention of the rest of the table.

Stephanie resists the urge to scowl and smiles assuringly. “I think it looks worse than it is. It doesn’t even hurt.”

Damian reaches out and pushes her sleeve back up, revealing the ugly bruise. Its providence is undeniable; she can clearly see the imprint of her father’s fingers.

Stephanie flexes her wrist and wiggles her fingers, showing off the lack of pain. “It’s nothing, honestly. I’m just grateful you weren’t hurt.”

Damian’s expression shifts to something like guilt. Stephanie stops just short of reaching out and patting him on the shoulder, assuring him that he’d done nothing wrong. His family are all here, and the neighbor besides; Stephanie knows Damian well enough to know that he would not appreciate the gesture in front of an audience.

Dick -- who was quickly becoming one of Stephanie’s favorite members of the family -- loudly asks Mr. Wayne questions about the morning’s adventures at the arboretum. Tim likewise guides the conversation away from the attack. Stephanie isn’t sure whose feelings they’re attempting to spare, but she is grateful.

The rest of the meal passes by without incident. Stephanie watches, and marvels at the easy way the others interact, and feels a sense of longing that she pushes down.

She has a decision to make.

*

That night, she listens for her door to lock, and never hears it. When she tests the door, she finds that the doorknob turns easily in her hand.

She shuts the door quietly and paces her room.

Her father’s words echo in her mind, and she tries her best not to think about how vulnerable her mother is in the sanitarium. As soon as the thought crosses her mind, she opens her trunk, and moves things to check that the letter itself and its incriminating contents are undisturbed.

It is. 

Stephanie breathes out a sigh of relief, then slumps onto the floor. She has no doubt about the veracity of her father’s threat. The bruises she bear prove his lack of care. But stealing from her employer? 

Stephanie has tried so, so hard to avoid this path. It would have been so easy for her to slip into petty crime, to have followed in her father’s footsteps. It would have saved her from so much heartache, so much sorrow. She’s made so many sacrifices to be where she is now -- respectable, in a place with people who treat her as such. 

It feels wrong, deeply so, to weigh that against her mother’s life. 

She knows what she ought to do -- tell Mr. Wayne, alert the police, make sure that her father is imprisoned before he can do any harm. 

But her father has escaped before, and he’s evaded the authorities even more often. She knows exactly how simple it is to get lost in the Narrows, to simply fade into the labyrinth of crumbling buildings and never be found. She’s done it herself, albeit briefly.

She’d been so angry at her mother when she left, when she’d made that last visit to the sanitarium and told her what she planned to do. She couldn’t allow that to be the last thing she said to her. Couldn’t allow those hurt feelings to linger forever.

It was only a key.

She closes her eyes, breathes deep. Knows that if she’s caught, then she’ll be dismissed. Likely imprisoned. Her future will disappear in an instant. She’ll never see Cassandra again, never get to share the classroom with Damian again, watching him slowly open up to her. 

Her father has trapped her neatly, and there’s nothing she can do.

*

Decision made, the temptation to leave her room proves to be too much.

The unlocked door is practically an invitation, though Stephanie has never revealed that she knew she was locked in. She wonders briefly if she’s being trapped, somehow. If they’re trying to catch her out.

It doesn’t matter. Her time here is likely coming rapidly to an end. She pushes open the door. 

Wayne Manor feels like a completely different place in the night. It’s never precisely inviting, even in the brightest light, but once it’s cloaked in darkness… Stephanie clutches her dressing gown closer to her body, wishing that she’d dressed fully. 

It was tempting to head straight for Mr. Wayne’s study to search for the key, but Stephanie, despite having decided to go along with her father’s plan, didn’t feel up to it quite yet.

Once she starts rifling through Mr Wayne’s things, that means there’s no turning back. Instead she just walks, moving through the corridors with little thought. She avoids the first floor, assuming that it’s more likely to run into someone there, and finds herself in a section of the second floor that she’s never explored in daylight. It’s too close to the family wing, but Stephanie is feeling reckless. Each step she takes throbs, and it’s a welcome reminder of how out of place she truly is in this beautiful home.

There’s a library here. Not the one she dips into for books for Damian’s lesson, but this is a cozy room, with books with cracked spines and a few comfortable chairs positioned near the windows. She catches sight of a few titles, and these shelves contain the penny dreadfuls and the sensational novels that the proper library lacks.

There’s someone in one of the chairs.

Stephanie freezes, hoping not to be seen, but it’s too late. A man rises from the chair, an imposing shape in the dark, and for a moment Stephanie thinks it’s Mr. Wayne, until the man takes a step towards her and she realizes the hair is wrong. Another step and his face is illuminated enough by the lamp that she recognizes him as the stranger she’d seen by the pond what felt like eons ago.

“Are you lost?” His voice is gravelly and reminds her inexplicably of the Narrows.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she says. Her heartbeat echoes in her ears loud enough that she worries he can hear it, too. “I-- I’m sorry, I don’t believe we’ve met?”

“No, we haven’t,” he says with a smile, though he doesn’t offer his name. His smile though-- it brings to mind the portrait gallery, and the adopted son who died in a mysterious foreign war.

It’s the same smile. 

“I’m Stephanie Brown, the governess,” she says, even though he clearly already knows who she is. 

“You should go back to your room,” he says, gesturing towards the door with one hand; the other holds a book, finger holding his place. “I wouldn’t wander these halls after dark.”

“Why?” The question bursts out without thought. The man smiles again, a tight-lipped one that made him look older than he was. In the lamplight, his scar is a terrible thing.

He shakes his head, and Stephanie’s eye is drawn to the book he’s holding. The gilded title stands out: _The Mysteries of Udolpho._

He holds the book up, his voice gentle. “Lonely young girls lost in mysterious mansions can find all sorts of trouble, you know.”

She thinks of the lovely woman playing the piano. She thinks of Cassandra’s eager eyes as they were attacked. She could ask him about these things. She might even get an answer; there’s something in his eyes that tells her that he’s not going to shy away from unseemly answers. Stephanie takes a deep breath, draws her eyes back up to him. “Indeed. I’ll just be… I’ll go back to my room.”

She might have gotten answers, but they might have made her decision all the more difficult.

“Good.” His expression is unreadable.

She walks out of the room, shoulders back, determined to look as if wandering the halls isn’t expressly forbidden to her. She remembers his name -- Jason Todd, though his living breathing presence is inexplicable. Beyond explanation.

So much in this house was.

*

She’s dreaming. She has to be, because she’s back at Kane House.

She’s sworn to herself she’ll never return there, so this can’t be real, even though she can feel the ache in her back and the exhaustion in her bones that marked her time there. 

She’s wandering through the narrow halls -- at the time, Kane House had felt huge, had felt like the grandest place she’d ever live, and now it feels small and cramped, with the memory of Wayne Manor fresh in her mind. It’s the same, though… the slats of the floor are permanently emblazoned in her mind, after all the time she spent on hands and knees scrubbing them.

There’s a crying sound off in the distance, and Stephanie valiantly tries to ignore it. Tries to ignore the way her heart tugs at her, the way she wants more than anything to run after it. To help. 

To change the past.

She turns a corner, and there’s a looming male shape in the darkness. The rest of the home had been bright, dust motes floating through the air, but now she’s plunged into nighttime, and her traitorous feet carry her closer and closer to the figure in the dark. 

The crying sound is louder.

Stephanie tries to look back over her shoulder, but can’t. The man is there, he’s just ahead, and for a horrible moment she thinks it’s Mr. Wayne, that he somehow _knows_ , and then it’s Jason Todd, holding a book of sublime horror, and then--

It’s Arthur Brown, scowling, and he grabs her wrists roughly. “The key, or else.”

Her stomach lurches, and in her dream she tries to argue, tells him _no_ like she wishes she could have done in real life, here in the dreaming where a single syllable won’t condemn her mother. 

It doesn’t make a difference. He seems to grow to monstrous size, and the walls of the hellish place feel like they’re closing in on her, making her small, making her less--

Stephanie tosses fitfully. She feels like she’s in the home cowering in front of her father and in her bedroom at Wayne Manor all at once, like she’s two different people inhabiting the same skin.

She focuses on the person she wants to be, pushes away the image of her father. Of her past. Of the things that she’d rather forget, the things she can’t change, the things that haunt her.

She’s in her bed now, Kane House fading away, her father’s voice dimming until it’s barely a whisper. She can’t shake the feeling that she’s still dreaming, that this room is nothing more than an elaborate daydream she’s constructed to escape from _everything_.

The tears come, then. Freely and openly, spilling over her cheeks, her breath caught in her chest, then escaping in a loud sob. There’s no one here to hear, no one to be strong for, so she clutches her pillow to her chest, cradles it, and cries.

She’s still certain that it’s a dream when arms wrap around her, when a soft deliberate voice whispers that she’s safe. She’s safe.

She can let it out now.


	4. her cup of stars

Daylight streams in her window, and Stephanie squints into it, confused. It’s so much brighter than it ought to be --

She sits up abruptly. She’s overslept. It’s clearly nearly midday, and her lessons with Damian were meant to start hours ago. She hastily dresses, wincing as she hurries through the room -- she’d slept with her ankle propped on a pillow, and the pain has eased, though she can tell it will still be tender for days. Her wrists are a sight, and she picks her blue dress with the slightly overlong sleeves to compensate.

She splashes water on her face, trying to soothe the puffy redness around her eyes. She remembers-- a dream, a terrible one, and then crying in the night, though she’d thought that was a dream too. The entire night had a strange, ethereal quality to it -- her eyes are a testament to the fact that her tears were real, but the comforting embrace surely hadn’t been.

The house is sunny and bright, the antithesis of the night before when she had roamed these halls. She hurries to the classroom, apologies bursting from her as she enters, but the room is empty. 

She stops short, looking around. Everything is as they left it last. No sign that Damian has been here at all. She checks the dining room, the kitchen, even goes by Mr. Wayne’s study and finds them all empty.

She lingers outside the study door for a second too long, then hurries outside to see if Damian is enjoying the unseasonable weather.

He is. Mr. Pennyworth is watching him ride his horse around the paddock. Stephanie leans against the fence, watching. The horse is trotting, and Damian has a look of intense concentration, eyebrows furrowed, that makes Stephanie think that he’s about to nudge the horse into a gallop. 

He does, and Stephanie bites back the urge to caution him as he lets out a delighted _whoop_. Damian is such a deliberate child, to see him letting loose makes Stephanie smile, leaning her elbows on the fence and watching fondly.

She doesn’t realize Mr. Pennyworth has moved beside her until he speaks. “You care for young Master Damian, don’t you?”

His tone is fond and thoughtful, and Stephanie finds herself nodding. “He’s a fine boy. He has so much potential.”

Mr. Pennyworth nods. “You’ve done well with him. I was telling Master Bruce as much yesterday.”

Stephanie watches as Damian rides, looking for all the world like he’s part of the horse. “My apologies for oversleeping-”

“None are necessary, Miss Brown. After yesterday’s ordeal, I thought it best if everyone had a relaxing day.” He nods towards Damian, and Stephanie feels a little better, knowing that she’s not the only one being coddled.

But she still has to say something. “I left my room last night. I couldn’t sleep.”

Mr. Pennyworth is silent for a long moment, then says carefully, “I suppose a day like yesterday would leave you restless, but the Manor at night is--”

Stephanie waits, hoping he’ll continue, but instead he goes silent. “Is what?” she inquires, pitching her voice the same way she had as a girl when she’d tried to squirm her way out of trouble with her teachers.

“Not a place for a young lady,” Mr. Pennyworth says finally. 

“Should I worry while I’m in my room?” Stephanie shouldn’t needle him, but the knowledge that she’s likely to be out of her job soon anyway liberates her. “And what about Cassandra? Is she aware of the dangers?”

“She is,” Mr. Pennyworth says, somewhat stiffly. “And you’re quite safe in your room.”

“I came across someone when I left my room last night,” Stephanie says. “He declined to introduce himself, but he bore a striking resemblance to the Mr. Todd that you told me had died in some dreadful affair overseas.”

Mr. Pennyworth’s eyes track Damian’s progress across the field. “Miss Brown,” he says finally. “You’re an intelligent young woman.”

Stephanie isn’t sure if she’s supposed to agree or refute that statement, so she does neither.

“I’m sure you’re realized there are some… irregularities within the household.”

“A few, yes,” Stephanie agrees. Truly an understatement. 

“That’s quite normal, amongst those of Master Bruce’s particular class,” Mr. Pennyworth says. He seems to pin Stephanie down with just a look. “It’s nothing to worry yourself about. Simply do your job, and you’ll continue to make a fine addition to the household.”

“Thank you,” Stephanie says, voice just as stiff as Mr. Pennyworth’s. 

She’s saved from further comment by Damian, as he rides up, cheeks red and eyes bright. “Did you see me?”

“You’re practically a centaur,” Stephanie tells him.

Damian laughs, clear and bright, and gallops away, clearly showing off.

“I did mean it, Miss Brown,” Mr. Pennyworth says. “Master Damian has been sorely lacking a mother figure, and you’re filling the role admirably.”

Stephanie bites down sharply on the inside of her cheek, and smiles thinly as the taste of coppery blood fills her mouth. 

*

Stephanie only realizes how long it’s been since she had a meal when she follows Mr. Pennyworth and Damian into the house for lunch. Her stomach makes an unseemly noise, which makes Damian snort with laughter.

Stephanie will gladly suffer a minor indignity if it means she gets to see Damian’s cheeks flush in embarrassment from making such an undignified noise. She even glimpses a fond smile on Mr. Pennyworth’s face. 

The day proves to be stranger and stranger, as Cassandra appears and sits at the table with them as if it’s her customary routine. Damian tells her about his morning -- he’d apparently done art prior to riding his horse, and Stephanie feels all the more sloth-like, knowing all she’d done was sleep.

Cassandra seems to sense Stephanie’s embarrassment, and pats her on the arm casually, as though they touched all the time. She had chosen the seat beside Stephanie, and there was something imminently comforting about her presence. 

Thankfully the conversation avoids the events of the previous day. 

After lunch, Damian turns to her and says, “I’m going to work on my drawings more. Alone.” and hurries off. Stephanie hasn’t yet laid eyes on his actual art, but has seen enough rough sketches he’s done for his studies to know that he has a true talent. She doesn’t follow; art is often a solitary pursuit.

“Walk with me?” 

Startled, she turns to Cassandra, who is watching her with a hopeful expression. Stephanie nods, and Cassandra loops her arm through Stephanie’s and leads them outside. The sun is bright, the air pleasantly warm, and Stephanie feels as though there’s a live wire attached to her arm instead of Cassandra’s. 

Cassandra seems content to walk in silence, and Stephanie feels compelled to fill the silence with words. She worries that she’s irritating Cassandra with a constant stream of observations and questions that Cassandra tends to answer with single syllables, but Cassandra’s soft smile never fades.

“Have you always lived in the manor?” Stephanie asks as Cass leads her down a walking trail. Stephanie thinks it’s the same one she walked with Damian not that long ago, the first time she saw Jason Todd on the manor grounds.

Cassandra shakes her head. Stephanie doesn’t think she’s going to elaborate, but she speaks after a moment. “Bruce took me in. My father was… not a good man. Bruce is.”

Stephanie swallows, trying to imagine going from a terrible life to this one. It’s all too simple. “I’m glad you have that.”

Her voice is steadier than she thought it would be. Cassandra looks at her closely, and pulls her into a hug. She says nothing, but Stephanie gets the overwhelming sense that Cassandra understands anyway. She wraps her arms around her, tucks her face into the crook of Cassandra’s neck, and loses herself in the comfort of the hug.

It’s familiar -- Cassandra’s arms around her make her think of her dreams of arms wrapping around her, grounding her, making her feel safe.

Stephanie pulls away first. “Thank you.”

“You can ask for help, you know.” Cassandra looks her straight in the eye, as piercing as staring into the sun.

Stephanie ducks her head, says, “If I need help, I will.”

It’s a lie, but Cassandra doesn’t seem to notice. They continue on their walk, Cassandra taking Stephanie’s hand in her own as she shows her the way.

Cassandra leads her to the pond, and, laughing, points out a turtle, lifting its head above the water. Stephanie watches the turtle swim slowly across the sun-dappled water, Cassandra’s hand squeezing her own, and wishes she could live in this singular moment forever.

*

Five days.

Stephanie has five days to appease her father. Steal from the man who has trusted her with his son. Lose everything she’s achieved, to let everything she sacrificed so much for fall to the wayside to save her mother’s life.

Cassandra’s words seem to echo through her mind -- her offer of help, her casual reveal that Bruce is a man of honor. Stephanie wants to abandon her duties, seek Cassandra out and confess everything, but Stephanie has tried that path before.

Her father has always foiled every plan she has.

She takes a deep breath. She’d stayed up late the night before, thinking it through, and one thing was certain -- the best time to steal into Mr. Wayne’s study was in the morning. After breakfast, when Damian normally did his lessons. Mr. Wayne never rose before then, the house was always nearly-empty. She had reason to be in that part of the house. It was the ideal time.

All she has to do is simply go for it.

Breakfast is quiet -- she compliments Damian’s horsemanship, and asks if he’d show her his drawings. He nods once, oddly shy for such a brash boy, and promises to go upstairs and get them.

Mr. Pennyworth clears the table, and Stephanie leaves, purportedly to the classroom. Mr. Wayne’s study is just one wrong turn from there, and she moves quickly, conscious of her narrow window of time. Damian’s room will take a few minutes to get to from here, but she’s not going to hope for more than that.

The door to the study is open. 

She slips inside, scanning the room. The desk is the obvious place; she hurries over. Pulls open the first few drawers, finds them neatly organized. Writing utensils, paper, opened letters, a penknife. No keys.

The final drawer is locked, and Stephanie drops down to sit on the floor. From the entrance of the study, she’s invisible, blocked from view by the desk itself. She reaches in her pocket, finds her lockpick.

After so much practice on her bedroom door with its complicated lock, Mr. Wayne’s desk drawer is simple. She feels the tumblers click into place, and tugs the drawer open. More papers, and she carefully lifts them, not paying attention to their subject matter. She doesn’t want to intrude on Mr. Wayne’s privacy.

There’s a small box underneath, and within the box is a skeleton-style key with a strange symbol worked into the filigree. The symbol is nothing she’s seen before. It looks almost demonic, something that would cause the ladies at Kane House to cross themselves, and Stephanie knows without a doubt this is the key her father so desperately wants.

She slides it into her pocket alongside the lockpick, puts the box back carefully, slides the paper back on top. The top paper catches her eye-- or rather, the name on it does. _Arthur Brown._

It’s an inquiry, asking if Mr. Wayne is familiar with the man, given the connection to his current governess.

Stephanie feels as if the floor has fallen out from under her. She considers putting the key back, confessing everything, but the thought of her mother, defenseless, makes her stay the course. She stares at the paper, resisting the urge to crumple it, to burn it, to make it disappear. 

Only cold logic stops her. Mr. Wayne has clearly already seen it. 

She shuts the drawer, leaves the study, and is sitting in the classroom when Damian walks in, moments later, clutching a handful of drawings.

The key feels like it’s weighing her down as she crosses the room to look at the drawings with Damian. Like it’s tugging her skirts to that side, like it should be the most obvious thing in the world. She brushes her fingers over the slight lump it makes in her skirt, and sits down beside Damian. Listens as he tells her about each drawing -- his father, a cat, his horse.

She feels like she’s betraying him, letting him share things with her that he’s clearly shown very few people. His cheeks tinge pink when she tells him how good his art is, how clean his lines are, how wonderful his shading. 

He hesitates before showing her the last drawing, eyes cutting in her direction before he turns the last page and reveals it. She’s momentarily convinced it’s going to be a drawing of her, but instead, it’s of a beautiful woman she’s never seen before. 

She quickly realizes who it is, though Damian is silent, staring at the picture intently, as if he’s never seen it. The woman has given her son her eyes, as well as the set of her chin. Stephanie had always thought of Damian as a miniature version of his father, but now, seeing his mother, she can tell that he’s a blend of the two.

“She’s beautiful,” she says honestly. Then, looking at the way Damian has drawn her expression, at the way the woman’s hands are clasped behind her back in a way that somehow looks more like a threat than coyness, she adds, “and fierce.”

A quick, sharp smile from Damian. “She is. She’s… That’s my mother.”

“You look like her,” Stephanie says. She has no doubt that Damian has captured his mother’s likeness. 

A small, sad smile. Damian looks at the picture, and it’s a sadder, more introspective look than any child should have on their face while looking at their mother’s image. “I miss her. I’m not supposed to, but I do.”

Stephanie thinks of Cass telling her that her father was a bad man, at Mr. Pennyworth’s vague descriptions of the providence of Mr. Wayne’s other children, and a pattern emerges. Damian had just spoken of his mother in present tense; she was alive, and he’d been brought to Mr. Wayne deliberately. _A fierce woman_. She thinks of that paper in his desk bearing her father’s name, at concrete knowledge that Mr. Wayne is fully aware that she’d lied about her origins, about her credentials, and the key in her pocket seems to take on even more weight.

“Sometimes,” Stephanie says carefully, “love isn’t quite enough. Sometimes a mother wants more than anything to be with her child, but ultimately that would only do harm to them both. All I know is that any mother would be proud to call you her son, and that any mother would rest easier knowing that their child was safe and loved and secure as you are.”

It is the right thing to say; Damian flings his arms around her, his shoulders shaking. She strokes his hair, rubs gentle circles on his back, and presses the softest of kisses on the crown of his head.

She looks at the drawing of Damian’s mother again, and wonders if regret is as bitter in her throat as it is Stephanie’s.

*

The rest of the morning passes by without incident. Damian loses himself in his arithmetic, filling page after page with his calculations. Stephanie sits at her desk and realizes there’s a new book sitting there. 

_The Mysteries of Udolpho_. She’s heard of the novel, of course-- it was a sensation a century before, but she’s never read it. There had been time for reading at Kane House, but the books available there had been carefully monitored for content. No sensationalism there.

She opens the book, and a scrap of paper falls out. A single line is scrawled on it in a heavy hand: _thought this might discourage you from midnight wanderings_. 

She smiles wryly. Doubtful, at this late date, given how little time she has left here. She thinks that whatever dark secrets she stumbles across in the night are nothing compared to her own.

Then she realizes there are other bits of paper sticking out from between the pages. She pulls out the first one, and nearly drops it, as if the paper itself had burnt her. 

It’s an obituary for one Jason Peter Todd, confirming his death at age fifteen. Another scrap of paper proves to be a funeral invitation. 

Tucked deep into the book is a photograph. Mr. Wayne’s expression is wooden and almost more deathlike than the boy sitting beside him, despite the fact that the hat on his head and the high collar don’t quite disguise the fact that the boy is a corpse. Don’t quite disguise the wounds. She turns the photograph over, and a few faint words are scribbled in pencil, in the same hand as the note -- _bruce and jason, finally photographed together._

She wonders if the _finally_ was meant as a ghoulish joke or if this is the only one they took together. The obituary made mention of their scant few years as family. 

She stares at the photograph. She’s heard tales of people being buried alive, of bells installed to alert cemetery groundskeepers of a dreadful mistake, but this doesn’t look as though Jason were merely comatose. He looks grievously wounded and undeniably deceased. 

But she’d spoken to him. He was older now, and he’d left this on her desk. She looked at his note again, and wonders what, precisely, he’s trying to discourage her from. A life where death held no dominion? 

She thinks again of the woman at the piano. She thinks of how easily she gets lost in this dreadful house, how the very walls seem to conspire against her.

She thinks of how carefully the family shields themselves. 

There have always been tales of extraordinary things happening. Of creatures from places beyond the earth itself, of people possessing god-like abilities. Of the mystics and their terrifying ways, of people who claim to be able to reach beyond the veil of death and communicate. Could it be so very outlandish to suppose that there’s a step beyond communication, that death itself could be brushed aside if one had the means and connections? 

The demonic shape of the key haunts her. Cassandra claims that Mr. Wayne is a good man, but even good men will do terrible things in the service of love. 

The photograph stares up at her, and she realizes that one of the barely-concealed marks on the dead boy’s face matches the scar Jason bears.

This is a family that will go to desperate ends for their own, and Stephanie is poised to betray them.

Tears unexpectedly well up in her eyes, and she dabs them away quickly, checking that Damian hasn't noticed. He’s still bent over his schoolwork, as if no revelations have happened.

She carefully tucks the papers back into the book -- wonders if Jason meant only to scare her, or if he thought she could connect the dots. She isn’t sure which theory she prefers. 

Stephanie’s hand slips back into her pocket, touches the key yet again. She doesn’t know what it goes to -- the design on it is worrisome. Her father had seemed desperate, and Stephanie wonders for the first time about his own motivations. He’s pressured her to be part of his schemes before, but never this threateningly. Never at this cost. She’d been so angry when he’d pulled her from the carriage that she hadn’t focused on his state. Had he been simply desperate, or was he terrified?

She’d heard very little about his escape from Blackgate. How had he managed it? Had it been of his own accord or had he had help?

She’d visited him once, before she’d been confined to Kane House. Had stood on the other side of those heavy bars, and told him what was happening to her. That her mother had forced this choice upon her, and that she was going to go along with it, but that once it was done, she was going to make a life for herself. That her sacrifice wasn’t going to be for nothing.

And the strange thing was, he’d looked almost proud of her. Like he’d wanted her to get far from the life he’d scratched out in the Narrows.

Hand in her pocket, she traces along the key. 

There’s a larger conspiracy at work, she’s positive of it. The scope of what the Wayne family might be involved in, what her father might have gotten caught up in, what she’s now a mere cog in… it’s terrifying.

*

Damian takes her hand on the way to lunch, a childlike gesture that only makes Stephanie feel all the more guilty. He’s not a child that trusts easily, and she worries that when -- not if, Stephanie knows her own luck better than that -- she’s caught, it’ll break his heart.

This isn’t who Stephanie wants to be. This isn’t the life she dreamt of, those long months. 

The key feels like a ball and chain, dragging her down. Stephanie has half a thought to drop Damian’s hand, to sprint back to Mr. Wayne’s study, to replace the key and pretend this never happened. She could have Mr. Wayne summon the investigators, she could tell them everything. They could protect her mother.

Instead, she walks into the dining room and eats her lunch, each bite tasting like sawdust in her mouth.

After, her meal seems to sit heavily in her stomach.

All thoughts of returning the key fly out of her head as Mr. Wayne himself joins them outside, to watch Damian ride his horse. Stephanie is leaning against the fence, almost exactly where she stood the day before, and Mr. Wayne appears by her side, silent and watchful. 

“He’s an excellent rider,” Stephanie says, because the silence feels like it’s choking her. 

“He’s a talented boy,” Mr. Wayne says. It doesn’t sound like a boast, but a mere statement of fact, and that itself shows the regard Mr. Wayne has for his son. Stephanie wonders if Damian himself realizes.

Stephanie nods. Her hand slips into her pocket almost of its own accord, tracing the lines of the purloined key, and as soon as she realizes what she’s doing she pulls away, as if the key were red-hot and had burned her. Mr. Wayne’s eyes are fixed on Damian, and doesn’t seem to notice.

“Miss Brown,” Mr. Wayne says after a silence that feels like it’s choking Stephanie. “I’m afraid I have to bring up a sensitive matter with you.”

“Oh?” Stephanie chokes out.

Mr. Wayne nods once, curtly. “It’s about the incident the other day. I’m sorry to have to bring up painful memories, but I’ve received word that investigators are going to arrive this afternoon to ask some questions.”

“Oh,” Stephanie says again, though the feeling behind it is now more akin to panic. “I had hoped… that is to say, I would prefer to not think about it.”

Mr. Wayne nods again. Stephanie wonders if he’s as uncomfortable with the conversation as she is, and then remembers again that he _knows_. He just isn’t aware -- as of yet -- that _she_ knows. “Unfortunately, the Gotham police are going to ask questions, no matter how insensitive they might feel. It’s for the greater good, you understand.”

“If it helps catch the bandits, then of course, I’ll speak to them,” Stephanie says. Then, because an obscure part of her wants Mr. Wayne to feel as uncomfortable as she does, “Damian showed me some drawings he did today.”

“Did he?” Mr. Wayne seems surprised, looks at her directly for the first time. “He’s quite protective of his art.”

“He’s incredible,” Stephanie says. Then-- “His mother is quite beautiful. Assuming his likeness of her is accurate, that is.”

Mr. Wayne’s mouth tightens. “He showed you that?”

“Mr. Wayne, if I can be frank for a minute,” Stephanie says. The weight of the key in her pocket is oddly liberating, now that she knows that the inspectors are going to reveal everything. That her secrets will be laid bare. She might as well lay bare other secrets while she’s at it. “I don’t know the circumstances of Damian’s birth or upbringing, but it’s apparent that he misses his mother. I pass no judgement on who she was or what she might have done, but a child needs to be able to _miss their mother_ without hiding it. It’s a natural response, as natural as a mother longing for her own child. No matter the circumstances.”

The words leave her feeling exhausted and empty, and she turns and heads back towards the house before Mr. Wayne can respond.

She doesn’t look back.

*

Stephanie goes back to the classroom. She finds it more relaxing than her own room -- the memories here are all pleasant, of laughter and frustrations with Damian, of the sun shining through the window, of ink stains on her fingers.

It’s a far cry from what her own room brings to mind -- tears in the night, the terror of a locked door, night terrors and uncertainty. 

She pulls out a fresh piece of paper and begins her letter. _Dear Mother--_

It’s too formal of a greeting, but the idea of putting an endearment down on this paper, of showing weakness of any sort, is unbearable.

_I received your letter. I’m thankful to know that you are improving, and hope dearly that you continue down that path._

She chooses not to address the other contents of her mother’s letter.

She adds a few more lines of bland correspondence -- assurances that she was in good health, that she was content, that she was safe. Only the first was true, but Stephanie finds she cannot unburden herself to her mother, not anymore.

She folds the letter around the key, and seals it in an envelope. The act of closing the envelope takes all her willpower; she stares at it for several long, anguished minutes beforehand.

An address on the envelope, and all Stephanie has to do is set this letter in the postman’s hands, and she’s fulfilled her task.She’s done what her father wanted, and her mother will be safe.

A simple task.

Likely, the key is meaningless. It’s probably simply a test, something designed so her father can make future requests of her. Taking things from the Manor itself. Acting as a woman on the inside, smuggling out the priceless artifacts that litter the Manor almost carelessly.

Her eyes drift across the desk. The book Jason Todd left her -- a thoughtful gesture after a single meeting-- is sitting there, scrap of paper marking her place. Damian’s drawings are still laying across his table, and she looks them over again. Feels as though his mother’s eyes are boring into her, like she’s judging Stephanie’s choice. Like she’s judging Stephanie’s _spinelessness._

The insipid letter, the stolen key. They aren’t who Stephanie longs to be. 

She folds the letter up, over and over until it’s as small as it can be, given its contents, and shoves it in her pocket. 

She leaves the classroom, and can immediately hear music. It’s a different song from last time. Her feet lead the way; she’s at the ballroom before she’s fully decided she’s up to seeing Cassandra.

Cassandra has a way of seeing into her soul, it feels, and Stephanie desperately doesn’t want to be seen today. But she peers into the ballroom anyway, and is greeted with the sight of Cassandra dancing, totally uninhibited, legs flying through the air and head tossed back.

She’s beautiful and free, and Stephanie longs for so, so many things.

Stephanie means to step away, to shut the door gently and go to her room to wait for the inspectors to arrive, but Cassandra catches her eye mid-leap. She lands, and abandons her dance to run up to Stephanie, beaming.

“Dance with me!” Cassandra takes both of her hands, and pulls Stephanie into the ballroom.

“I can’t--” Stephanie protests, a million excuses on her lips. Her ankle, though it’s only the faintest of aches now. Her job, though Damian is happily with his father. Her despair, though she doesn’t dare speak that one aloud.

“You can.” Cassandra’s tone brooks no arguments. She pulls Stephanie into a dance, a dizzying waltz around the room. It’s hardly the same as the dancing Cassandra was doing before Stephanie came in the room; both her feet spend most of their time on the floor, and her arms, instead of fluttering around her body, hold Stephanie firm -- one hand high on her waist, another tangled tight with Stephanie’s own.

It’s a formal type of dance Stephanie has never actually done before, and instead of feeling stiff and regimented Stephanie feels almost giddy and playful, laughing as Cassandra twirls them, as she pulls Stephanie close, as they end up pressed together, hip-to-hip, as Stephanie follows her lead.

The formal constraints of the dance are soon abandoned as they end up swaying in each other’s arms, Cassandra smiling at Stephanie gently.

Stephanie is going to miss her most of all, perhaps even more than Damian. She can feel tears begin to fill her eyes, and she blinks rapidly, staring up in a vain attempt to keep them from falling.

“Don’t cry.” Cassandra’s hand brushes just under her eye. 

All that does is make Stephanie want to cry more, but she takes a shuddering breath and blinks some more. “I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to apologize for,” Cassandra says. Stephanie disagrees, but doesn’t want to ruin the moment arguing. She smiles sadly.

Cassandra shakes her head at her. “Don’t be sad. You’re…” she pauses, as if she’s searching for a word that she can’t find. “You’re welcome here. No matter what.”

“You don’t know anything about me,” Stephanie says. “Not really. Not who I was before.”

“You don’t know me before, either,” Cassandra says. They’re no longer dancing, not really, just swaying and clinging to each other like lifelines.

“I… I lied.” Stephanie says. Cassandra’s grip on her hand is tight, and her hand slips so that it’s resting on Stephanie’s hip. Stephanie memorizes the feeling, knowing she won’t experience it again. “I know who the bandits were. At least, the one who grabbed me.”

Cassandra says nothing, but her expression is soft and inviting.

Stephanie swallows hard and continues. “It was my father. He’s… you said once your father was a bad man. Mine is, too. He’s escaped from Blackgate, and he tried to get me to… to help him. To be a criminal myself.”

“You are not your father,” Cassandra says, and the words have a significance behind them, like she’s parroting something meaningful that’s been said to her.

“I know,” Stephanie says. She leans forward, rests her forehead against Cassandra’s. “But I’m hardly an innocent, myself.” She feels the need, then, to unburden herself. She can’t confess to the key in her pocket, but she can admit to the thing that’s been eating away at her. “I was at Kane House, before I applied for this job. I lied about it. I’ve never been to a boarding school, I’ve never trained to be a governess. I’m from the Narrows, and I got into trouble, and my mother sent me there so I wouldn’t end up… So I wouldn’t end up like her, I guess. I was there for five months, from when I started to show, until after they took my daughter. I… I don’t even know where. They didn’t let me see her, but I heard them talking in the hall, about finding a placement for a girl.” 

Stephanie takes a deep breath. “They say you can’t miss what you never had, but I do, even though a part of me is grateful that my mother chose that path for me. Because if I hadn’t… If I hadn’t given her up, I wouldn’t be here.”

_I wouldn’t be here with you_ , she can’t say. Her daughter’s father was long gone, and she would have been just another unwed mother, heading for the workhouse, had she kept her. Or possibly no longer on the earth at all; the birth had been difficult, and only the bold actions of the doctor that the staff had summoned had saved her life. 

Her mother had told her, when she’d come to visit afterwards, that she’d taken money from her father’s cache, the money he’d stolen over the years, and used it to make sure that her daughter was placed in an actual home. That she was given a life better than anything Stephanie could have hoped for.

“Is it wrong?” Stephanie asks, searching Cassandra’s eyes. “ To miss something desperately, but to be grateful? To lose something so important, and to still find hope?”

Cassandra doesn’t answer with words. Instead she surges forward, her mouth pressing perfectly against Stephanie’s. The kiss feels like a revelation and a foregone conclusion all in one, and Stephanie lets her eyes flutter closed, gives herself over to it fully.

It’s over too soon. Cassandra pulls back, looks at Stephanie directly. She’s about to say something, eyes bright and earnest, but footsteps echo through the ballroom. Stephanie lets go of Cassandra, stepping quickly back, as she looks up to see Mr. Pennyworth standing just inside the door.

“Miss Brown,” he says. “The investigators are here.”

Stephanie takes a deep breath. Cassandra reaches out, touches the back of her hand gently. “It is not your fault. Be honest.”

Stephanie nods, and follows Mr. Pennyworth.


	5. journeys end in lovers meeting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who has joined me on this journey! ♥

Stephanie shifts uncomfortably on the sofa. It’s a very nice sofa, beautifully upholstered and thickly cushioned, but the weight of the Commissioner’s gaze is too much.

She’d assumed that low-level policemen would be coming to speak with her -- it was hardly a sensational crime -- but when she’d entered the parlor that Mr. Pennyworth had led her to, she’d been introduced to the Gotham City Police Commissioner, James Gordon, and a Detective Bullock. 

Mr. Wayne had done the introductions. Apparently being wealthy meant being familiar with the upper echelon of power in Gotham, including the head of the police force. Stephanie supposed it made a certain amount of sense, given how vulnerable Mr. Wayne was himself to crime. She knew that in the Narrows, the police weren’t there to help the people so much as police the people, but that things clearly worked differently in Bristol.

“Miss Brown has been in my employ for some months,” Mr. Wayne says. “She has been a godsend for my son.”

Commissioner Gordon exchanges a glance with Detective Bullock. “Are you aware of Miss Brown’s… particular background?”

Mr. Wayne smiles blandly at the Commissioner. “What background is that?”

“Girl’s hardly fit to be a governess for the Wayne family,” Detective Bullock says bluntly. “Her father’s a crook of the worst sort. Calls himself the Cluemaster, fancies himself a rogue.”

They were watching carefully. Stephanie resists the urge to stare down at her hands, demurely folded in her lap, and instead meets their stares steadily. Mr. Wayne let out a surprising laugh. 

Stephanie isn’t sure she’s ever heard Mr. Wayne laugh, but it’s a pleasant, homey sound. 

“What precisely does Miss Brown’s father have to do with her suitability to care for my son? I don’t recall hiring _him_. I hired this young lady, and she’s gone above and beyond.”

Stephanie’s breath catches in her throat. Guilt claws at her, warring with the warm feeling of pride at Mr. Wayne’s words. 

“Yes,” Commissioner Gordon says carefully. “But Mr. Brown has recently escaped from Blackgate, and we have reason to suspect he was behind the assault on your son this week.”

“My son was unharmed,” Mr. Wayne says calmly. “Miss Brown was the one injured, albeit superficially.”

“And I’m sorry to hear that, Miss,” Commissioner Gordon says, and despite everything, Stephanie finds herself liking the man. “We need to hear what happened. The truth, this time.”

“He wore a mask,” Stephanie says, to excuse her past lies. “But-- I think you may be right. That it was my father.”

“Did he say what he wanted?” Surprisingly, the question doesn’t come from either investigator, but Mr. Wayne himself.

“He was vague. Panicked,” Stephanie says. “I think… We’ve never had the best relationship, and he’s always been thoughtless and cruel, but he’s never tried to corner me like that before. I don’t think it was entirely his idea.”

Detective Bullock lets out a derisive snort. “Yeah, yeah.”

Stephanie looks at him sharply. “I know I wasn’t entirely truthful before, and I know how it sounds. I was worried about losing my position here, were Mr. Wayne to find out about my family. But my father has done many terrible things before, and I have no love lost for him, but I honestly believe there is a larger conspiracy here.”

Now would be the time to pull out the key, but Stephanie knows that admitting to theft would only prove Detective Bullock’s point about her. Furthermore, she has the feeling that it’s not something Mr. Wayne himself would care to explain. So she clenches her hands together, no longer demure, and says, “He threatened my mother’s life. He instructed me to steal something from Mr. Wayne, but Mr. Pennyworth approached before he could tell me what. He seemed like a desperate man, so I was terrified to say anything. I feared he would come find me.”

Commissioner Gordon nods, looking at her with something akin to pity. Stephanie has seen that look before and hates it. Mr. Wayne looks thoughtful, and Detective Bullock snorts again. “So your old man grabs you, drags you away, threatens your mother and tells you to steal from your boss, but never tells you what?”

“If you doubt the veracity of Miss Brown’s story, simply look at her wrists,” Mr. Wayne says. His voice is cold and almost dangerous. Stephanie pushes up the sleeves of her dress, revealing the bruises. They’re starting to yellow around the edges, making them a sickly shade of purple that somehow looks worse than when they were fresh.

She has no doubt that lawmen will recognize the pattern as hand prints.

Commissioner Gordon makes a few more notes, and snaps shut his writing pad. “Mr. Wayne, if any more information comes to light…”

“You will be the first to know,” Mr. Wayne says.

“Miss Brown, I hope that we meet again under better circumstances,” Commissioner Gordon tells her. 

“I very much hope so,” Stephanie says. She stands, nods at them both, leaving her wrists bare as they leave the parlor. She can hear Mr. Wayne making more promises, telling them he’ll share any information, he’ll keep an eye out, he’ll employ extra security in case the Cluemaster gets it in his head to break into the Manor directly.

She sits back down on the sofa, eyes on the floor, waiting for Mr. Wayne’s return.

When he does, Stephanie stands. She’ll face her fate on her feet. Mr. Wayne is well within his rights to fire her, and Stephanie, having had these last few moments to think about all she was losing— her sense of purpose, Damian’s trust, Cassandra’s embrace — decides that her dignity, at least, won’t be left to the wayside. 

“Miss Brown,” Mr. Wayne begins , but Stephanie interrupts. 

“I lied to you. You have no reason to trust me, or to continue to entrust your son’s care to me.” She looks him dead in the eye. “But I have come to care for Damian deeply, as well as the rest of your household.” A brief flash of Cassandra’s lips pressed on hers, and she can feel her cheeks tinge with pink, but she soldiers on. “But I do promise I won’t lie to you anymore.”

“Miss Brown,” Mr. Wayne says loudly, interrupting her just as she was about to reach into her pocket and pull out the key. “I appreciate your candor, truly. But It’s unnecessary. I fear you haven’t been as stealthy as you thought. I was aware of your situation from the beginning.”

Stephanie opens her mouth, but Mr. Wayne continues without hesitation. “I think you’ve learned enough about my family by now to realize that I don’t believe that one’s birth and circumstances define one’s character. My sons and daughter are all proof of that, and I wouldn’t have trusted you to the job had I not thought you were capable and trustworthy. I understand why you hid your past, and I’ll admit I allowed the ruse to continue for longer than I ought to have, but from now on, I’m glad that we can continue without those lies.”

Stephanie feels as though the room is off-kilter, like the floor is shifting beneath her feet, like she’s on the ferry heading towards Blackgate on choppy waters. The word _continue_ stands out; does that mean-- “Are you implying that you aren’t firing me?”

“Why would I fire you?” For the first time, Mr. Wayne sounds genuinely confused. 

“Because I lied? Repeatedly? And my father planned an attack on your son? Dragged him away from the carriage, could have injured him--”

Mr. Wayne smiles at that, incongruously. “Damian is made of sterner stuff than you think.”

“Damian is a little boy who shouldn’t be subjected to violence,” Stephanie fires back. “It changes you, you know. Getting caught up in violent deeds when you’re too young to know right from wrong. And by the time you’ve realized, by the time you’re clawing your way towards a decent respectable life, it all catches up to you!”

Mr. Wayne is still smiling, but now it’s proud. “And that, Miss Brown, is exactly why you’re the ideal governess for my son. Leslie Thompkins thought so, when she gave me your name.”

Stephanie feels as though the floor has dropped out from beneath her at the name. The woman had nursed Stephanie through the worst of it, those hard weeks after the birth that had nearly taken her life, and that meant that her true character truly had been laid bare for Mr. Wayne to see and he had still hired her. Had still entrusted his son to her. Had still defended her.

“But--” Stephanie says weakly, reaching into her pocket. She pulls out the folded-up letter, feeling like it was a lifetime ago that she’d placed it inside her pocket, and is about to hand it to Mr. Wayne when Mr. Pennyworth enters the room, looking genuinely harried for the first time since Stephanie met him.

“Master Bruce, come quickly.” Mr. Pennyworth’s eyes cut to Stephanie, and he says, “Miss Brown, it would be prudent for you to return to your room now.”

Mr. Wayne nods once, sharply. He turns on his heel and follows Mr. Pennyworth out of the room, leaving Stephanie standing there, confession still on the tip of her tongue, stolen key still in hand. 

*

Stephanie, mindful of her conversation with Mr. Wayne, goes directly back to her room. She’s tempted to check the ballroom, to see Cassandra again, but she’s determined to forge ahead as an honest woman. 

She places the key back in her pocket, still wrapped in the letter to her mother. She doesn’t dare leave it on the desk; at the very earliest opportunity she’s going to return it to Mr. Wayne.

She wanders her room aimlessly; picks up a book and sets it down, wishing she’d thought to bring Jason’s gift -- no matter his intent with it -- with her, as it had at least drawn her attention. She stares at a blank piece of paper, thinking she might write something down for Cassandra -- not how she makes her feel, that’s too delicate and fresh for the written word, but words of appreciation for making Stephanie feel like Wayne Manor was a home.

There’s a tiny flame of hope flickering within her, that she might get to keep this life. That she might spend her days teaching and learning with Damian, dancing with Cassandra, eating at a table filled with people who have her welfare in mind. It’s more than Stephanie ever thought she’d have, and it’s so close to reality.

A tentative knock sounds at her door, and Stephanie stands up, startled. She leaves the blank piece of paper with all its potential intact, and opens the door to find Damian.

His chin is high and his eyes dry, but Stephanie knows a child seeking comfort when she sees one. “Are you okay?”

“Fine.” Damian’s voice is sharp. “I was simply… I thought you would be lonely. Frightened. With the Manor empty.”

“I didn’t realize it was completely empty,” Stephanie says honestly. She’d assumed Cassandra was still around, that Jason might be lurking in the family wing, that Mr. Pennyworth was attending his duties.

Damian shakes his head, once. “There was… an incident. In town. Father and the rest went to attend to it.”

“Oh,” Stephanie says. “You were left behind to keep me safe, I presume?”

Damian nods, sharply. ”Yes. Yes, that’s it. And I can do that best if I’m here with you.”

“Then by all means,” Stephanie says, opening her door wide and gesturing for him to come inside.

Damian looks around her room with unabashed curiosity, and Stephanie can tell he finds it lacking. How, she can’t imagine-- this room is the most luxurious place she’s ever laid her head, and more spacious than she’d ever hoped for. 

He sits down at her desk, stares at the blank piece of paper, and says, “I’m going to draw.”

Stephanie nods, and curls up in the chair by the window, book open on her lap but her attention on Damian. He looks a great deal like his father, in the arch of his eyebrow and the set of his jaw. He’s concentrating fully on the drawing, occasionally glancing around the room. Stephanie turns her eyes rapidly to her book when he does, so he doesn’t feel self-conscious.

Eventually, she realizes that she needs to say something. “Damian?”

“Hmm?” His pencil is rapidly flying over the page. Filling in some shadow, she assumes.

“I need to apologize to you,” Stephanie says. The pencil stills. “I wasn’t truthful with you. I was born in the Narrows. My father is one of the rogues that attacked us the other day. You weren’t the intended target at all, I was, and it wasn’t fair of me to let you think you were.”

Damian turns slowly in her chair, looks at her directly. “Apology accepted.”

“If you-- if you have any questions, from now on I’m being entirely truthful,” Stephanie says, even though that’s a dangerous thing to promise a child. He deserves it, though. 

“Did you know he was going to attack us?” The question is immediate and to the heart of the matter.

Stephanie shakes her head. “No. I knew he’d escaped from Blackgate, but never dreamed that he even knew where I was employed. I hoped he would never know where I was, to be honest.”

“You don’t miss him?” Damian’s voice doesn’t waver, but the vulnerability shines through anyway. Stephanie is on her feet, wrapping him in a hug before she can even begin to formulate a verbal response. 

“No,” she says, “except for the ways that I always will. We had some good moments, when I was little, when he wasn’t angry or mean or spiteful. I’ll miss the potential we had, that we could have been a family, if he weren’t so weak. But it’s okay to miss your mom, Damian. No matter what she did. You’re allowed to miss her.”

She catches a glimpse over Damian’s shoulder of the drawing he’s working so hard on, and her voice catches in her throat. It’s her -- unmistakably her, with her hair slightly mussed and her smile too bright to be considered polite -- sitting beside Damian -- less precisely rendered, but the sharpness of the lines reveals how Damian sees himself -- books open on their laps. 

Damian pulls back, and sees that she’s looking. “Your room is impersonal,” he says, gesturing around. “It needed… something. To mark it as yours.”

“It’s perfect,” she says wholeheartedly. “Absolutely perfect.”

Damian smiles, a shy, fleeting thing that warms Stephanie’s heart, and then his stomach growls loudly.

Mr. Pennyworth would normally have dinner prepared, but apparently he had left with the others. “Come on,” she says, figuring that it was okay to leave her room for sustenance. “We’ll go to the kitchens and make something to eat.”

Damian agrees, and Stephanie leads the way. There’s a strange quality to the Manor, now that she knows they’re fully alone in it. It’s somehow more terrifying than when she’d never been sure as to who might be in its halls. 

It’s a different sort of terror, the weight of responsibility on her shoulders, as the sole adult in charge of Damian.

The kitchen is empty, but Stephanie plans to pull together a simple meal, until she notices a pie that Mr. Pennyworth had prepared that morning, still resting on a cooling rack.

Stephanie lifts it up and grins at Damian. “I found dinner!”

“That’s dessert,” he says, but Stephanie ignores him and cuts them each a large slice of apple pie. There’s a table in the kitchen -- meant for prep work, or perhaps Mr. Pennyworth eats there sometimes -- and Stephanie settles down there, setting Damian’s pie at the seat catty-corner to hers. After a moment, he sat down, picked up his fork, and dug into the pie.

They ate silently for a minute, then Stephanie froze, fork halfway to her mouth. Surely her ears were playing a trick on her.

Damian kept eating, and Stephanie slowly lowered her fork. “Damian?”

“Hmm?” 

“You said everyone went into the city, right? Even Mr. Pennyworth?”

Damian nods.

“Even Jason?” 

“Why are you--” Damian stops mid-sentence as the sound happens again-- the sound of a door closing just a bit too roughly.

“Maybe they’re home,” Stephanie says, even as she’s rising and casting her eyes around the room looking for a weapon. There are knives, but Stephanie has heard too many horror stories back home about girls who had knives easily taken from them. She grabs a fireplace poker instead, the heavy iron feeling secure in her hand. The point is sharp and heavy enough to do damage, but at a greater distance, and it’s less deadly if it’s turned against her. 

Damian has no such qualms; there’s a blade flashing in his hand before Stephanie can think to warn him against it. “Alfred would be in here scolding us for eating his pie, not skulking around the manor slamming doors.”

Stephanie squares her shoulders. Damian’s right, her gut is right, and now she has to face this. “The manor is huge… we could hide.”

Damian made a derisive noise. “I will hardly allow my ancestral home to be overtaken by ruffians.”

If Stephanie didn’t know better, she would think that Damian was almost _happy_ that there was an unknown enemy afoot. His eyes were bright with excitement, and he was facing the open door of the kitchen, flicking the blade in his hand artfully.

“I think your life is more important than a few old knicknacks,” Stephanie tries to argue, but Damian strides forward, heading towards the noises. Stephanie hurries after him, fire poker held firmly in hand. “Damian!” 

A crashing noise comes from Mr. Wayne’s study, and Damian takes off after it. Stephanie runs after him, thankful that her ankle is strong enough, and skids to a stop when Damian does, just outside the study door. Apparently he’s foolhardy enough to race towards danger, but cautious enough to peek inside before barging in to defend his home.

“Let’s go,” Stephanie tries again, voice barely a whisper, tugging at his arm, 

Damian shrugs her off and enters the room, having clearly judged the intruders to be no threat. Stephanie flings herself in after him, knowing she’d never forgive herself if he were injured or worse on her watch.

The sight that greets her shakes her to her core.

Damian -- tiny, ferocious Damian -- is brandishing his knife at a masked man standing behind Mr. Wayne’s desk. It’s clearly her father-- he’s wearing the outfit he chooses when he wants to be called Cluemaster, all garish colors and his face covered like a bandit.

He’s pointing a pistol at Damian.

“Stop!” The words tear out of Stephanie’s throat, shaky and desperate. “Don’t harm him.”

“Stephanie,” her father says cordially, as if he weren’t threatening the life of a child. “Have you done as I asked?”

Stephanie clenches her fist even tighter around the poker. “I’m not stealing from the Waynes. They’re far better people than you.”

“Better than your mother?” Her father lets out a harsh laugh. “Probably. Definitely richer. They paying you right, Stephie?”

“There’s nothing here for you,” Stephanie says. Her voice is steadier than she hoped it would be. “The police commissioner himself was here earlier, and he’s on to you. You need to leave.”

“You know I can’t do that,” her father says. 

Stephanie takes a steadying breath. “Who’s threatening you?”

Her father’s hand shakes, the pistol drooping momentarily before he rightens it. Points it back at Damian, who is watching everything with a fierce expression. “Where’s the goddamn key?”

Stephanie can feel the weight of it against her leg, and hopes her expression doesn’t give her away. “I told you, I’m not stealing for you. It’s a big house. Look for it yourself, and let us go.”

“If that was an option, Stephie, I would,” her father says, and Stephanie almost believes him. “This is bigger than us.”

“How much bigger?” Damian’s voice is crisp and unbothered, as if he weren’t staring down the barrel of a loaded gun. 

“I ain’t telling you, brat.” The gun wavers again, and he turns to his attention back to Stephanie. “Besides, this is your goddamn fault.”

“ _How?_ ”

“Told my cellmate that my daughter, she was moving up in this world. That she didn’t let the Narrows drag her down. Not for long, anyway.” He glares at her. “And that bastard remembered every goddamn word I said. Got word out his higher-ups, some real scary bastards, and next thing I knew, we were both getting busted out.”

“You don’t get to blame that on me,” Stephanie says, anger boiling to the surface, burning away her fear. Damian’s impressive calm helps; had he been upset, Stephanie would have already acted.

“This isn’t what either of us wants, but there’s only one way out of this.” Her father’s hand shook slightly, and Stephanie wonders again who is pulling the strings.

“Your cellmate’s boss… who was it?” 

Her father’s face was stony. She would never get an answer out of him. Damian glances at her sharply, clearly wanting her to do _something_ , to shift this tide somehow, but she has no idea what would work.

“You don’t have to do what they say, whoever it is,” Stephanie tries. “Mr. Wayne has influence. He could hide you, until they forget about you. But that’s only a possibility if you _don’t harm his son.”_

“Stephie, I raised you better than to believe fairy tale shit like that.” Her father’s voice is grim. “You know how it works. I do what they say, I get out of it with my neck intact. I don’t, and it’s lights out.”

“This key can’t be worth that many lives,” Stephanie says.

“What’s this key even for?” Damian is still shockingly calm and collected, given the circumstances.

“How the hell would I know? All they told me was that Wayne was important somehow and so was this goddamn key. Important enough that I got dragged into this shitshow.”

His hand is shaking now. Stephanie takes a few steps towards Damian, with a vague plan of stepping in front of him. She isn’t sure that was a safe bet -- her father was desperate, and Stephanie herself might not be enough of a human shield. 

It was worth a try, though. She tightens her grip on the poker with vague thoughts of brandishing it as a distraction. She hefts it up, point angled towards her father.

Her father turns slightly in her direction, hand dropping just enough that the gun’s no longer pointed at anyone in particular, and that’s when Damian moves. His hand flies out, and the knife he was holding is airborne.

It strikes her father’s hand; he immediately drops the gun and cries out. 

Stephanie pushes aside the most important question -- _how the hell did Damian pull that off?_ \-- in favor of swinging the poker in her hand wildly, connecting solidly with her father’s back and sending him reeling to the ground. 

Stephanie immediately grabs Damian’s hand and runs.

He comes with her without struggle, thankfully. She has a moment of fear that he’ll refuse, that he’ll try to attack her father again, but Damian clutches her hand tightly as they make their way through the twisting halls of Wayne Manor.

Footsteps echo behind them, and Stephanie glances back to realize that, _of course_ , her father hadn’t broken into Wayne Manor alone. That would be a fool’s errand, and as much as she wants to think of her father as a fool, he’s not. There are two men chasing them, both wearing discreet dark outfits, a world of difference from her father’s outlandish outfit.

She turns a corner, Damian’s hand still clutched in her own, and realizes she’s lost. The ground floor of Wayne Manor isn’t nearly as perplexing as the rest of the house, but she still feels like she’s never seen this hall before, like she’s been running for longer than should be possible.

The footsteps behind them sound more distant. Stephanie spares a second to ask Damian, “Where are we?”

He’s looking around, brow furrowed, and says, “I’m not sure.”

“You _live_ here,” Stephanie hisses back. There’s a doorway to their right, and she tries it, only to find it locked.

“So do you!” Damian replies hotly. 

“You’ve lived here _longer_ ,” Stephanie amends. 

“Barely,” Damian says quietly as they continue down the hallway. Another turn, and there’s a figure standing in the hallway.

Stephanie slows, but Damian doesn’t, and his grip on her hand is tight. She trails after him, feeling as though she’ll fall to her face if she should let go or slow down, and Damian shows no sign of hesitation.

Stephanie realizes as they reach the figure that she recognizes her. That they’d sat together at the piano bench, that she’d seen her image immortalized around the manor.

Damian stops short, staring.

One glance at him and Stephanie knows that he sees the same woman she does, the one that from certain angles looks somehow indistinct, as though a blink might erase her from view. Worse, from the gobsmacked look on his face, his mouth hanging slightly agape, looking startlingly more child-like than he has in the entire time he’d known her, he recognizes the spirit.

A beckoning finger, and the woman walks slowly, calmly down the hall. To the right, and Stephanie glances down at Damian. 

“That can’t be,” he says, staring at the woman’s back.

Stephanie feels uncertain. Off-kilter. Why had the woman appeared to her instead of her grandson? “We have to go with her,” Stephanie says. “It’s the only way.”

The footsteps behind them have faded to nothing, and when Steph looks back she sees no one. Just long, empty halls -- deeper and more shadowed than they ought to be, longer and more complex. It feels like they’ve teetered off the edge of reality itself and have slipped somehow into a strange shadowy realm, a place between worlds. 

Damian’s eyes never leave the woman’s form. It’s surprisingly solid, given what Stephanie knows about her now. She sees how she was fooled that first time into thinking that she was a woman of flesh and blood. “I’m not scared.”

Surprisingly, Stephanie believes him. His voice doesn’t waver and he doesn’t shy away from following the woman’s path. 

Stephanie briefly wonders if following a dead woman down a hallway that shouldn’t exist is truly their best option, but it feels like the only option available. She can no longer hear their pursuers, but she isn’t entirely sure where she is, and Damian walks with his shoulders squared, determination reflected in his body language. 

A turn, and a door stands before them. It’s familiar; the same door that Stephanie had come across before while searching for the library. The woman -- Martha; Stephanie has to admit to herself that this is Martha Wayne, dead and somehow not gone, young and beautiful as the paintings showed her to be -- reaches out. The doorknob is identical to the one on Stephanie’s door, the one with the lock she’s spent hours picking, and it somehow doesn’t surprise her when Martha’s hand turns it easily.

She looks at them gently -- a soft smile for Stephanie, then she bends down and presses a kiss to Damian’s forehead. Strokes a pale hand along his cheek, then pushes the door open.

They step through, and when they look back, she’s gone.

Damian makes a tiny noise of protest, like he wants to call out for her, but knows that drawing attention to themselves would be folly. Stephanie chooses to look ahead, to try to suss out where they are. The room is pitch-black and silent, darkness yawning in front of them, and from the smooth hardwood floor and the echo of their footsteps Stephanie thinks they’re in the ballroom. 

It makes no sense. They’d ran so far, they’d twisted through so many corridors, only to end up so near where they’d started. 

Stephanie reaches out in the dark and takes Damian’s small hot hand in her own. 

“We should go outside.” Damian’s voice is steady but missing its usual sharpness; perhaps the encounter has shaken him more than he let on. “They’ll find us here.”

His confidence makes Stephanie pause. “Damian, do you know something I don’t?”

A few more steps, and they’re close enough to the windows that the moonlight allows her eyes to adjust. She can just make out his outline, like he’s a half-finished sketch. 

He’s looking away from her, avoiding her gaze even when she can’t see his eyes. “Damian?”

“They’re part of the League of Assassins,” he says finally, as if that does anything but raise a thousand more questions for Stephanie.

“Who is that?” she goes with. “How do you _know_?”

“I knew of them from before,” he says. His mysterious upbringing. Of course. “And the name is rather self-explanatory.”

“I see,” Stephanie says, mind racing. “What does that mean for us?”

“It means that we aren’t eluding some common Gotham goons,” Damian snaps. “These are _killers_ , they’ve trained their entire lives for that singular purpose, and we _can’t stay still._ ”

Then Damian’s hand is gripping hers tightly and he’s pulling them through the ballroom. Stephanie quickly realizes he’s still intending to take them outside. It’s a wild gambit-- the darkness would help obscure them from view, and there are far more places to hide, but if Mr. Wayne were to come home, it’s unlikely that he’ll find them there.

Stephanie realizes then that she’s thankfully still clutching the fireplace poker. The memory of the iron clunking on her father’s back is off-putting, but to use it against the goons that pursue them… she thinks she could easily do it again. Might have to, if they’re as dangerous as Damian claims.

The doors leading outside are locked, and the few seconds it takes to throw the locks and quietly push them open feel like an eternity. Stephanie keeps looking over her shoulder, certain the goons will be there, but somehow, their strange detour has bought enough precious time that they make it outside.

Stephanie shuts the doors behind them as quietly as she can, mindful of how they’d realized the manor had been broken into in the first place. Damian’s warnings haunt her, and she knows it’s only her own father’s carelessness that kept them from being silently attacked while they ate pie. 

There’s a chill in the air. The beautiful weather of the week before is long gone, and Stephanie shivers as she leans against the door, looking across the terrace. Damian has no such hesitation. He hurries across the terrace and towards the steps that lead to the lawn, and beyond that, the garden.

“The maze,” he says.

Stephanie shakes her head. She can picture it: lost in the maze, cornered in a dead end as the assassins, or somehow worse, her father approaches. Being caught off-guard by a bullet shot into the hedges themselves. They’d be like sitting ducks. “That’s the obvious choice.”

And the most tempting for a man like her father, drawn to the dramatic and ironic. 

Instead, she creeps alongside the house itself. The windows blaze with light, and Stephanie finds the window leading to Mr. Wayne’s study. Damian creeps alongside her like a shadow, silent and watchful. She gets the distinct impression that he thinks he’s protecting her, rather than the other way around.

If it keeps him close, she’ll allow it.

She peers in the study’s window. Her father has wrapped a handkerchief around his hand, though it’s turning red, and is rooting through Mr. Wayne’s desk, throwing papers and items to the floor as he empties the drawers. He tugs at the final drawer -- the locked one, the one Stephanie had broken into herself -- and when it refuses to open, a slow smile spreads across his face.

Damian’s practically vibrating with suppressed energy, and Stephanie lays a hand on his shoulder to attempt to calm him. 

Her father doesn’t bother picking the lock like Stephanie had. Instead, he pulls a hammer out of a bag slung on the floor -- she’d seen that bag a thousand times, back home, filled with what her father called the _tools of the trade_ \-- and begins to smash into the drawer. 

“How _dare_ he--” Damian hisses. Stephanie can feel the tension coiling in his body, so she tightens her grip on his shoulder.

The heavy wood doesn’t give, so her father changes tactics. Uses the claw of the hammer and pries the upper frame of the drawer apart. It’s a sound tactic; within a minute he’s pulling the contents of the drawer out through the opening he created.

Papers flutter to the floor carelessly, then he finds the box at the bottom. Pulls it open, and--- “Goddamn it!”

Flings it, empty, to the floor. Stephanie watches, wide-eyed, as he stomps out of the room, leaving chaos in his wake.

She pulls Damian close, crouches down behind the shrubs. It’s an unlikely hiding spot, and an effective one. She can hear her father’s angry yells-- bringing to mind a thousand other nights, huddled in the dark, but this time, she’s got her arm wrapped around the shoulder of a boy she’s duty-bound to protect and she’s not going to cower -- and doesn’t budge.

Damian squirms away. “We have to go get them.”

“Go get them? We just _escaped_ them!” Stephanie grabs at Damian’s hand, but he takes off.

Stephanie stares at his retreating back for only a split second before taking off after him, lifting her skirts and cursing under her breath as she sprints. She turns the corner to the front of Wayne Manor and is greeted with an impossible sight.

_The Batman_ is there grappling with two of the assassins right on the front steps of Wayne Manor. 

Tales of the Batman have been reported for years -- as long as Stephanie can remember, the name has been whispered in the darkest shadows of Gotham. Her father himself claimed to have been waylaid by the phantom, but Stephanie had assumed those were lies. That he’d been trying to save face, build himself up as someone worthy of being fought by a myth.

She’s never seen the Batman - only a vague rendering of him that once appeared in the Gotham Gazette, only to have never been printed again. That image circulated around the underbelly of Gotham, tattered and smudged -- a monstrous being, with jagged wings, pointed ears, a snarl filled with sharp teeth.

But Stephanie has no doubt that the dark figure she’s seeing -- cape, jagged ends fluttering as he moves with superhuman grace; a helmet with pointed ears obscuring most of his face, a dark suit with a bright yellow outline of a stylized bat emblazoned on his chest -- is Batman. 

Damian hasn’t skidded to a halt, but instead clearly intends to fling himself into the scuffle. It’s foolish-- it’s clear that Batman is winning the fight. One of the assassins is limping badly, his kicks swinging wide, while the other is bleeding from a gash on his forehead that is clearly obscuring his vision.

Stephanie takes off again, trying to overtake Damian, to keep him away from the fight. She catches hold of the back of his shirt, tugs him back like they’re children on the playground playing a particularly vicious game of tag.

That’s when Stephanie realizes that Batman isn’t the only masked figure present. A similar form, only smaller, more wraith-like, and with its face completely obscured, is pulling her father out of the Manor, arms trussed behind his back.

She clutches Damian, pulls him close, whispers, “They’ve got this. Stay with me.”

She can feel the tension in his shoulders, feel the pull as he begins to break free of her embrace, and then-- the Batman glances over, mouth tightens, and gives the faintest shake of the head.

Damian immediately slumps, no longer pulling against her, and watches with an almost sullen expression as a figure of myth battles assassins on the front steps of his home.

Stephanie glances down at him -- any boy should be reacting with wonder at the sight. She certainly feels it, the strange light feeling that the world has more possibility than she’d previously imagined.

The Batman lands a final blow against the bleeding assassin, sending him crashing to the ground. Stephanie can tell from where she stood that he was unconscious. The second assassin was dealt with just as summarily, with the Batman darting in and landing a blow against his knee that caused him to crumple. A sharp jab with his elbow and both assassins are slumped on the ground. The Batman secures their wrists behind their backs despite the fact that they’re clearly down for the count.

The other masked figure -- a woman, Stephanie now sees as she enters the light, an identical bat spread across her chest -- throws the Cluemaster down, his mask sliding off his nose and drooping sadly around his neck. He scowls, and notices Stephanie, and starts snarling vicious things at her, things that she’s heard before and doesn’t care to hear again, and the masked woman reaches out almost delicately, jabs at his jaw, and he’s crumpling as if he’s a marionette with the strings cut. 

Damian pulls free, runs to the Batman. “We had it handled,” he says, voice filled with the same stubborn pride that she recognizes from her early days as his governess. 

Stephanie gapes at him. “We absolutely _did not_.” She looks at the Batman directly for the first time. “And-- how did you know that we needed help?”

The Batman has a hand resting familiarly on Damian’s shoulder, and Stephanie has seen that before. She blinks, pieces falling into place, about how the Batman knew that Wayne Manor was in trouble. About why Damian might speak so familiarly to him. About why she was the only one astonished.

“You--” She can’t quite bring herself to say it aloud, and she shakes her head. Some things are best left unspoken. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” The Batman says, eyes focused to their left. His voice is growly, harsh and entirely unlike Mr. Wayne’s. Stephanie’s eyes fall on the masked woman, and it’s an easy leap to make -- the image of Cassandra’s powerful body leaping through the air while she danced superimposed over this one. Stephanie smiles at her, an open, grateful thing. 

Cassandra moves to her side, presses their shoulders together. Stephanie feels for the first time since hearing the doors slam that she’s _safe_. 

“Stay quiet,” Cassandra says, voice barely a whisper. “This isn’t about you.”

Stephanie fights back the urge to point to her father’s unconscious body, to brandish the fireplace poker she still has gripped in one hand, but understands when a new figure arrives.

It’s a woman, voluptuous and beautiful, and she moves with the same deadly grace as Cassandra. She steps into the circle of light around the front of the house, and Stephanie recognizes her.

Damian’s drawing had been accurate.

“Beloved,” she says, and all of Stephanie’s suspicions are confirmed with that one word -- her intonation and accent are near-identical to Damian’s, and her familiarity with the Batman clearly speak of intimate ties. This is undeniably Damian’s mother. 

She barely spares a glance for the unconscious men as she approaches. 

“Talia, this was not our agreement.” The Batman’s voice is gravelly and emotionless. Beside her, Damian is staring, mouth pursed tight like he’s fighting back words.

He hasn’t approached his mother, despite how he’s longed for her. Stephanie wraps her arm around his shoulder, and to her other side she sees Cassandra’s mouth quirk up, like she approves.

“Exactly,” the woman says. Her eyes cut over to them, pausing on her son then lingering on Stephanie. The gaze is unsettling; Stephanie feels as though her worth is being measured and found lacking. “You hired that to care for our son?” A careless gesture towards Stephanie that was almost as cutting as her tone.

Damian bristles, and Stephanie keeps her arm around his shoulder tight, hand grasping his shirt. Cassandra takes a half-step forward, somehow making that tiny motion look menacing, but Damian’s mother, this Talia, whose reputation is shrouded in mystery still but Stephanie now has enough pieces of the puzzle to make a very disturbing picture.

“You could have written with your concerns, not concoct an elaborate scheme to try to get the poor girl fired,” the Batman says. “This entire debacle is about more than the governess.”

“It’s about my son losing what makes him special,” Talia hisses. “His education is falling to the wayside. His training is going to seed. I made him remarkable, and you’re determined to condemn him to normalcy.”

“He is a _child_ ,” the Batman says. “And you entrusted me with his care. I will raise him as I see fit. He is well taken care of here. He is happy.”

“Then why did he send a message to me, asking me to intervene?” Talia’s tone reminded Stephanie viciously of the girls she’d grown up with when they held a petty triumph over the heads of everyone else. 

Stephanie’s breath catches in her throat, and she looks down at Damian. He is staring at his parents, trying to maintain a stoic expression. Stephanie is close enough to see his wavering lip; he’s barely holding it together.

He also isn’t pulling away, and Stephanie thinks that this message, whatever it said, must have been sent in those early days, before he’d grown accustomed to her presence. She chooses to not take it personally, remembering the unkind thoughts she’d had towards him.

“I’m taking him,” Talia says. Her hand is on her hip, and Stephanie notices for the first time that she’s wearing a sword.

“No.” 

It takes Stephanie a moment to realize that Damian is the one who spoke. The Batman and Talia turn to look at him, both looking surprised, and Cassandra crosses her arms, clearly ready to jump to Damian’s defense.

“You will,” Talia tells him, voice sharp and commanding.

“I was wrong to send you that message,” Damian says, and Stephanie is overly conscious of the way she still has her arm around him. “I am sorry for the inconvenience I have caused, but your interference is no longer necessary.”

“Why? Because you’ve cozied up to the help? Damian, my son, you’re meant for more than this.”

“You told me my father was extraordinary and that I was destined to be the same,” Damian says, taking a sharp step forward. Stephanie lets her arm drop to her side and watches him stand on his own. “I haven’t been here long enough to become anything and I refuse to leave.”

The hurt that flashed across Talia’s face was real, and despite the fact that she was responsible for the nightmare that Stephanie’s life had become, she found herself sympathizing for the woman. To have your child forsake you was a terrible thing, no matter the circumstances, and Stephanie wondered if she’d spent the journey here imagining a life with her son.

Stephanie knew that pain too well. Having strangers bear witness to it would be too much.

She catches Cassandra’s eye and takes a step back, tilting her head towards the garden. It’s far enough away that Damian and his parents can speak in private, but close enough to be within view. Talia doesn’t acknowledge their exit, but Batman gives them a slight nod.

There’s a low stone wall surrounding the garden, and Stephanie settles down atop it, shifting until she’s found a comfortable spot. The conversation by the front steps seems to be going well enough; no one is yelling and Damian’s shoulders are still held back defiantly.

Cassandra settles down on the fence beside her, the outer line of their thighs pressed together. It gives Stephanie flashbacks to the carriage ride they’d shared. 

“So,” Stephanie says after a moment, then reaches over and traces part of the outline of the bat on Cassandra’s chest. “What do you call yourself when you wear this?”

“Batgirl,” Cassandra replies. 

“How long have you been Batgirl?” Stephanie watches as Damian turns to his mother and says something, chin in the air, looking defiant.

“Since I came here.” A pause, and she looks over at Cassandra. She’s pulled off her mask, and her expression is soft and searching. “My father… made me a weapon. For--” she gestures towards Talia and the unconscious assassins. “I did not want to be, once I understood what it meant. What death meant.”

Her expression is familiar, and Stephanie gets a sudden flash of Martha Wayne’s face as she led them down that impossible hall. 

Stephanie wraps her arm around Cassandra. Presses a gentle kiss to the corner of her mouth. “You’re so much more than a weapon.”

Cassandra’s answering smile is like sunshine. It warms Stephanie thoroughly, despite the cold night.

Then she nudges Stephanie, gestures towards Damian. “His mother has agreed to go.”

Stephanie isn’t quite sure how she knows that -- Talia’s stance still looks like she’s ready to challenge Batman -- but sure enough, she steps forward and takes her son’s face in her hands, says a few short words, then kisses his forehead. Turns on her heel and disappears into the dark, leaving behind the assassins and the Cluemaster.

Batman doesn’t go after her. Neither does Damian.

Cassandra stands, offers Stephanie her hand as they approach. Damian’s eyes are dry, and the Batman has a hand on his shoulder. Even knowing who is beneath the mask, Stephanie cannot bring herself to think of him as anything else; it’s too uncanny.

“I would like to apologize,” Damian begins, but Stephanie just pulls him into a hug. 

“You have nothing to apologize for,” she says firmly. “You are not responsible for the actions of others.”

“But Mother--”

“I’m sorry that you had to say goodbye again so soon,” Stephanie says. She will not allow a child to apologize to her for actions out of his control. She remembers doing that enough as a child, and how eventually the words would settle bitterly in her mouth, how she pulled away and tried to find any means of distraction. It had nearly led her to ruin, and she wouldn’t let another child settle along that path.

She spares a glance up at the Batman, and she can tell that he approves. Damian pulls away from her, and she takes a step back, shoulder bumping against Cassandra’s, and she looks at the unconscious men on the ground.

The Batman answers her unasked question. “The Commissioner is on his way.” 

She thinks back on the events of the night, all the terrible and revelationary things. “What would you like me to tell him?”

“Always the truth,” he says, and she thinks she might be imagining the upturned tilt of his mouth, just shy of a smile “The relevant parts, at least.” He squeezes Damian’s shoulder, then releases him. “Go inside. It’s safe in there.”

Stephanie obeys. Damian follows her with a great deal more reluctance.

She shuts the door carefully behind her, and says, “We should finish our pie, before the Commissioner comes and we spend the next few hours explaining what happened.”

Damian nods, still subdued, and follows her to the kitchen. She returns the fireplace poker to its rack by the hearth, and together they finish nearly the entire pie before the Commissioner arrives.

Some wounds take time to heal. Damian seems to embrace the little distractions Stephanie is offering, the excuses to not think about his mother, and she provides them. She thinks about asking about the things that still puzzle her about the house, about its unreliable architecture and spectres, but the time isn’t right.

*

Mr. Wayne arrives an hour after the Commissioner does, looking harried.

“Damian!” he says, pulling his son into a hug as soon as he enters the room. “I’m so glad you’re safe!”

The Commissioner looks on with a quiet sort of amusement; Stephanie has the sneaking suspicion that he, too, has put together the puzzle pieces.

Then, to her complete shock, Mr. Wayne also pulls _her_ into a hug. “Miss Brown, I’m thankful you’re likewise unharmed.” 

“No one laid as much as a hand on either of us, Mr. Wayne,” Stephanie says truthfully, “and your son composed himself admirably in the face of danger.”

The interview with Commissioner Gordon wraps up quickly after Mr. Wayne’s arrival. Stephanie wonders how much of the interview had simply been Commissioner Gordon killing time until Mr. Wayne’s return. She chooses to view it as a kindness. There was undeniable warmth between the two men.

That leaves her alone with Mr. Wayne and Damian. 

“Is Mr. Pennyworth still in the city?” she asks.

Mr. Wayne nods. “It was a distraction, to keep drive us away from here. Dick was unfortunately injured. Mr. Pennyworth is a trained medic, and is staying with him in the townhouse tonight.”

“I hope he has a speedy recovery,” Stephanie says. Mr. Wayne doesn’t sound too worried, so she assumes that Dick’s injuries are superficial. 

“And Todd?” Damian asks.

“Finishing some things up,” Mr. Wayne says. A vague answer, but Damian nods like it gives him all the information he needs.

Stephanie stands, hands clenched together, then says, “Mr. Wayne, I have to confess something.”

He turns to her, brow furrowed in a way she’s far more accustomed to seeing on Damian’s face. “Yes?”

She reaches in her pocket, pulls out the letter. Carefully unfolds it, mindful of the eyes watching her every move, and opens the envelope. Removes the key. Holds it out. “I stole this.”

Of all the reactions she was expecting, Mr. Wayne’s eyes to crinkle in laughter was the last. “So that’s where it was!”

“I-- here, take it,” Stephanie says, shaking it towards Mr. Wayne.

He accepts it, then shakes his head. “Do you realize that the only reason that this didn’t end up in the wrong hands is that you were keeping it safe?”

“I-- wasn’t, I just… I shouldn’t have taken it!” Stephanie insists. All the guilt from the previous day is slowly dissipating, replaced with confusion at Mr. Wayne’s lack of anger. “I understand if you want to fire me. I’ll pack my bags--”

“Miss Brown, Alfred would have my head if I let you go over something as silly as a key,” Mr. Wayne says. “You risked life and limb to keep my son safe tonight. You reacted to danger with a clear mind. I couldn’t imagine a better governess for Damian, who is somewhat of a magnet for danger.”

Damian scoffs. “Hardly. You won’t allow me anywhere near danger.”

“Get some rest,” Mr. Wayne says. He wraps his hand around the key, tucks it into his own pocket. “It’s been a long day.

“I have to ask,” Stephanie says. “The key-- why was it so important?”

She doesn’t think at first that Mr. Wayne will answer her, but after a hesitation that goes on just a bit too long, he does. “This key is tied to Damian’s mother, her family, as I’m sure you’ve guessed. The things they do. Nothing for gentle ears, I’m afraid, just....” Mr. Wayne looks down, twisting the key in his hand, then back at her. “The possession of this key, to be able to open certain doors, could mean the difference between life and death, one day, if I found myself willing to use it. For myself, I wouldn’t want that, but Damian is different. It’s his birthright, terrible as that may be.”

Stephanie found, like most answers she’s given in this house, that it only raised more questions than it answered. From Damian’s expression, he understood. She nods despite her confusion and says simply, “I’m glad to have helped.”

She turns to Damian before she retires for the night. “I’ll see you in the morning for class.”

A sharp nod, then he flashes her a quick, genuine smile. It’s the first she’s seen since his mother left, the first glimpse at an emotion that hasn’t been muted by the events of the night, and Stephanie takes that to heart. 

*

Stephanie must have been distracted on the way to her room, because she’s lost. The halls have taken on a strange countenance, just slightly to the left of normal. It reminds her of earlier, of the impossible paths they’d taken through the Manor. Just as winding. Just as disconcerting as before, even though she’s no longer forbidden to roam them.

The woman is playing the piano again, and Stephanie sits beside her. “You’re watching over him, aren’t you? Your son?”

It’s strange to think of Mr. Wayne as a _son_ , rather than the patriarch, but it’s the only thing that makes sense. The woman’s hands stutter over the keys, a single discordant note echoing into the song, giving it a darker quality.

“And you tried to protect me,” Stephanie says quietly. “You tried to keep his secret safe by locking me up, and you tried to keep me from getting tangled up in the things that go on in this Manor.”

The music never stops, her hands never stop flying over the keys, but the woman turns her head and looks Stephanie dead in the eye. A shiver runs through her body, her shoulders physically shaking under the stress of maintaining that eye contact.

“Thank you,” Stephanie manages to say, despite the chill, “but I’m capable of looking after myself. I want this life.”

She isn’t entirely sure what _this life_ truly entails, but she knows that she’s found greater happiness in her months here than she could have imagined. It’s well worth the strangeness, the mysteriousness, the danger. 

She thinks that this could be her home. 

She leaves the ghost behind to seek out her own bed. Once there, the day’s events take their toll and she’s asleep soon after her head hits the pillow.

*

Arms settle around Stephanie, waking her gently. She smiles into the dark.

“Cass,” she says, voice soft and bleary from sleep. “Thank you.”

Silence for a long time, and Stephanie thinks that she’s done something wrong, acknowledging Cassandra’s presence. Then the arm around her tightens, pulling Stephanie closer, and she smiles.

“You’re.. welcome.”

Stephanie smiles into the dark. She finds she suddenly doesn’t care if her door is locked again, so long as she’s locked in with Cassandra. There are a million things to say, and for the first time Stephanie thinks she’s going to be here long enough to say them all.

She thinks that she’s _home_.

So she goes with the thing that’s most pressing, the thing she can’t stop thinking of. “That thing you did to my father?”

“Nerve touch,” came a soft, almost hesitant reply.

“Yes. That,” Stephanie says. She turns over, tangling her legs with Cassandra’s. There’s just enough ambient light to make out Cassandra’s features, soft and muted. “Teach me?”

A laugh, and Cass surges forward, mouth against Stephanie’s. “Tomorrow.”


End file.
